Craig Santos Perez

I dreamed of you tonight, Wayne Kaumualii Westlake, as I walked down on the sidewalk under plumeria trees with a vog headache looking at the Māhealani moon. In my need fo’ grindz, and hungry fo’ modernity, I stumbled into the gentrified lights of Whole Foods, dreaming of your manifestos! What pineapples and what papayas! Busloads of tourists shopping at night! Bulk aisle full of hippies! Millennials in the kale! Settlers in the Kona coffee! And you, Richard Hamasaki, what were you doing kissing the ripe mangos? I saw you, Wayne Kaumualii Westlake, broomless, ghostly janitor, sampling the poke in the seafood section and eyeing the smoked fish. I heard you ask questions of each: Who butchered the mahimahi? What price opah belly? Are you my ‘aumakua? I wandered in and out of the canned goods aisle following you, and followed in my imagination by Sir Spamalot. In our bourgeois fancy we strolled through the cooked foods 
section tasting hand-churned cheese, possessing every imported delicacy, and whispering to the cashier, “Go fuck yourself.” Where are we going, Wayne Kaumualii Westlake? The doors of perception close in an hour. Which way does your pakalōlō point 
tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our huaka‘i in Whole Foods and feel dādā.) Will we sail all night through Honolulu streets? The coconut trees no have nuts, tarps up for the homeless, we’ll both be lonely. Will we cruise witnessing the ruined empire of America, past pink mopeds in driveways, home to our overpriced apartments? Ah, dear uncle, Buddhahead, ghostly poetry teacher, what Hawai‘i did you have when TheBus quit turning its wheels and you arrived in Waikīkī and stood watching the canoes disappear on the murky waters of the Ala Wai?

Darkness spills across the sky like an oil plume. The moon reflects bleached coral. Tonight, let us praise the sacrificed. Praise the souls of  black boys, enslaved by supply chains, who carry bags of cacao under West African heat. “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat,” sings a girl dressed as a Disney princess. Let us praise the souls of   brown girls who sew our clothes as fire unthreads sweatshops into smoke and ash. “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good,” whisper kids disguised as ninjas. Tonight, let us praise the souls of Asian children who manufacture toys and tech until gravity sharpens their bodies enough to cut through suicide nets. “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me,” shout boys camouflaged as soldiers. Let us praise the souls of  veterans who salute with their guns because only triggers will pull God into their ruined temples. “Trick or treat, smell my feet,” chant kids masquerading as cowboys and Indians. Tonight, let us praise the souls of native youth, whose eyes are open-pit uranium mines, veins are poisoned rivers, hearts are tar sands tailings ponds. “Trick or treat,” says a boy dressed as the sun. Let us praise El Niño, his growing pains, praise his mother, Ocean, who is dying in a warming bath among dead fish and refugee children. Let us praise our mothers of  asthma, mothers of  cancer clusters, mothers of miscarriage —pray for us— because our costumes won’t hide the true cost of our greed. Praise our mothers of  lost habitats, mothers of  fallout, mothers of extinction —pray for us— because even tomorrow will be haunted —leave them, leave us, leave—

[ for my dad ] The fallen Latte is the sign.It is from within the row of Latte that we feel our strength. It is the severed capstone that gives us Their message

~ [our] nightmare : no birdsong— the jungle was riven emptied of [i sihek] bright blue green turquoise red gold feathers—everywhere : brown tree snakes avian silence— the snakes entered without words when [we] saw them it was too late— they were at [our] doors sliding along the passages of [i sihek] empire—then the zookeepers came— called it species survival plan—captured [i sihek] and transferred the last twenty-nine micronesian kingfishers to zoos for captive breeding [1988]—they repeated [i sihek] and repeated : "if it weren't for us your birds                    [i sihek] would be gone forever" what does not change / last wild seen—

Rub the entire block of SPAM*, along with the accompanying gelatinous goo, onto your wood furniture. The oils from the SPAM* moisturize the wood and give it a nice luster. Plus, you'll have enough left over to use as your own personal lubricant (a true Pacific dinner date). Why didn't you tell me about the "In Honor of Guam's Liberation" SPAM*! I'm trying to collect them all! Once I was on a diet and SPAM* faded from my consciousness. Then I met my future wife, who's Hawaiian, and SPAM* became part of my life again (a true Pacific romance). Maybe the economic downturn will help people appreciate SPAM* instead of loathing it. SPAM* doesn't have to be unhealthy; I eat SPAM* every day and I'm not dead, yet—just switch to SPAM* Lite. Despite rumors, SPAM* is NOT made of such odds and ends as hooves, ears, brains, native peoples, or whole baby pigs. The name itself stands for Specially Processed Army Meal, Salted Pork And More, Super Pink Artificial Meat, Snake Possum And Mongoose, or Some People Are Missing. My uncle is the reigning Guam SPAM* king. He won the last SPAM* cook off with his Spicy SPAM* meatballs. I will never forget the two-pound SPAM* bust of George Washington he made for Liberation Day, toasted crispy on the outside with raw egg yolk in the hollow center— the kids loved it! Only a fool would start a company in Guam that provides SPAM* protection. For Xmas, I bought a snow globe featuring a can of SPAM* sitting on an island. Turn it over and a typhoon swirls madly, unable to unseat SPAM* from its place of honor. I have a souvenir can I bought after seeing Monty Python's SPAM*ALOT on Broadway in New York City. It cost me $10 and is the most expensive SPAM* I've ever bought. I will never eat it.

~ remember just

For my wife, Nālani, and our daughter, Kaikainali‘i, on her first birthday nālani clips kaikainali‘i’s tiny fingernails while she sleeps — “the rape of oceania began with guam” — soldiers invade okinawa, hawai‘i, the philippines, and south korea — #yesallwomen how do [we] stop kaikainali‘i’s body from becoming target practice — bullets fragment and ricochet —

for my pregnant wife, nālani, during her second trimester nālani and i walk to our small community garden plot in mānoa — the seed packets in my pocket sound like a baby’s toy rattle — when do they spray glyphosate along the sidewalks? from kunia to waimea, fifty thousand acres of gmo fields — how will open air pesticide drift affect our unborn daughter, whose nerve endings are just beginning to root? — we plant seeds in rows, soil gathers under our fingernails — syngenta, dupont, dow, pioneer, basf, monsanto