 This first one is called Islands. When the waves come too fast, too hard, too often, filled with nervousness, anxiety, curiosity, wonder, and all else that comes from the unforeseeable ocean, you must ask yourself about the land the water reaches. You must ask yourself, is this my sand? Because it may be true that the shells say otherwise. The waves will always come, no matter the island, no matter the shape, no matter the weather. The beach and island may be shaped by the tide. And the current of the wave will slowly and surely form the rock, but you mustn't let the storm take it. This is called Butterfly Snow. I was traveling through India. And we stopped in Mikliotganj. And I saw a bunch of white butterflies flying over the city up towards the Himalayas. The butterfly snow falls up the mountainside, lined with stacking foundation in vivid color. The fluttering prayer flags complement their little white wings, meandering as graceful spots. Above and through, they move with and as the landscape. And the green mixed with white flies. The sight is all for the eyes, and the silence is all for the ears. Because they do not need sound for beauty, for the silver-soaked souls climb in numbers beyond the eyes as souls waiting to soar. See the white warriors from another life take on this journey from the window. This one's called a quarter Japanese, because that's what I am. I identify with the quarter, and I still don't know about the nickel and seven dimes. The river flows, cut up the sun, it still shines. Even if the river is narrow, the wind still blows in the flat meadow of the sparrows, like little stepping stones. I know I can work on watching the sugioka ripple, and I know love can guide me without light. But my blindness can't help but hit itself. This cannot be helped, makes windows never lived in, shudder, and crack, even if they don't fall flat. Because the book took my lungs, and without my knowledge, it wrote on my back. So I go back and make sure the trace lines don't get drawn in. I see the boats, and apart from it, the car granddad dragged himself in. It mattered that he was the one driving, because road mapped wings clipped. He still thought he was flying with the apricot orchards white dirt tried to cover, so he'd turn in his grave before and after dying. Apparently a quarter is all it takes for the maple syrup to cover the carpet. So I can get a, what are, I can see it, the Japanese. And suddenly you're a specimen, and the ground beneath our feet becomes the back of my head, and now that gravity is no longer listening. I guess we'll take whatever we want, and you can call it stolen. Quarters confuse people, because if I'm confused about the quarter, then the whole dollar is in question. And farewell to manzanar equipped to me with shikata ganai, and a narrative that I can't remember. But this phrase and its meaning still echo across me, in phases I cannot predict and do not understand. My mind stumbles and cries as identity flies in and out of 3.14-sided lives. Would it be too much to say you can't eat what has already been cooked as seemingly endless enigma of truths and lies? How do I check in with me when cookie cutters front and lines follow publicity stunts? I never knew how I fit into this pie dish. And now that I've really thought about it a little, it makes more of a lot less sense. This one's called a renunciated renunciation. It's good to humanize the monks. I was up in the Dalai Lama temple watching the monks chant. The renunciation in my mind of being one falls to laughter as I see three Coke Zero cans, numerous dark chocolate fantasy biscuits, and a monk sneaking fruit from his bowl that sits in front of him. Yes, they are people too, not just practitioners to the tea. They're always abstaining until you take a look at the underside of the monk's little tables, until you look for the little treats. Then you might find what you were looking for in the Dalai Lama temple. I always see them as these diehard people that once you start meditating, you never stop. The rest of your life, so. So there's this voice that may have come from my bloodline of the Sugiyokas. It's this voice that always tells me I'm not enough. I refer to this voice as a hungry ghost. And that's the name of this poem. I had a feature, danced with someone new. What more do you want from me? You want me to change my aunt's parenting. You want my friends to stop fighting. You want me to get them to talk about their feelings. You and me leave each other blindsided. And whenever I try to get closer to the edge of the face, I free fall another 20 miles to take some time later from my body to realize the first thing you want to stay when I get off the stage is what's next? I am enough. I'm trying to get an echo from a waterfall. I am enough, not a depth rattle from a deep cave. I am enough. What wasn't I doing when I was doing my best? And you knew from my start what you were doing right under my nose that I never thought of shifting from until sometimes soon back. The audience reacts. The method shocked to intact. What if you didn't run this flame through the candle like a sword? What if I massaged it like a pen and let ink blot and spread and the ship sank but the ocean rose? And that was a good thing. This cannot be helped. Still chants from a diamond passion twice as hard generation, even though Ante Dora was going at it with that list, with those house chores, seven minutes is 70. When you're 70, but when you're a sugioka, the sun isn't down yet. And even if it is, it's not that dark outside. We're chronic fatigue and depression, see sideways and meet each other on the midnight lawn. And they don't know how to see farther than grandfather, than the sidewalk on their side of the street, the other side of the street. They see a world, I'll tell you. They don't want to refund. And don't let me forget to mention that it's crazy how long people will let you take care of them and act like it's normal. And it is crazy how long you cannot take care of yourself. I brought big bags of frozen burritos to Jake's house in middle school again and again. And when you go to Costco, do you think you could get them again? Fifth grade, Casey gave me that paper airplane and I crumpled it without hesitation and trucked it in the trash. I'm here for the fast company. Not enough don't make me think not enough that someone could reach me not enough. Really all I've done for this not enough and you think that's enough? Have you earned it? What have you spent? Think you deserve my two cents. I'll tell you this quarter is hell bent on paying rent. What are you loved for? What's up for grabs in your store? You know, I wonder if I stole everything anyway. Sometimes I'm trying hard enough to not be enough anymore. And sometimes I'm lying on enough and enough is the floor. This is called radiance. I have a beautiful heart. It is working on coming back to itself. It is working on feeding itself. It is working on acknowledging itself. My heart works so hard for me. For it wants to use itself to its fullest ability. It wants to equate its love in a measurable quality and quantity will do whatever it takes to heal itself and it will take whatever it needs. It will line you in fire without your asking because my heart deserves a radiant lining. I treat yours with radiance.