when I say

I am not broken.

I am built for depth.

For years I mistook that tremor

for weakness,

for fear,

for something unfinished in me.

But it was never weakness.

It was recognition.

It was my body telling the truth

long before my mind had the words.

I have lived a lifetime thinking

I was unsatisfied

because I was not enough,

or because no one ever stayed long enough

to see the deeper rooms of me.

But I was never unsatisfied.

I was untouched in the way that mattered.

I was waiting for someone

who understood intimacy

as something more than urgency,

more than hunger,

more than the quick choreography

so many men mistake for connection.

Attunement has always been my first instinct—

the way I feel sincerity

before I hear it,

the way I sense safety

before I trust it,

the way I know who is real

and who is only performing realness.

Discernment has always been my compass—

the way I separate longing from loneliness,

the way I refuse to confuse attention with care,

the way I know when someone is present

and when someone is only reaching

for what I represent.

Regulation has always been my shield—

the breath I return to,

the pacing I honor,

the slow opening of my body

only when safety is not a question

but a fact.

Reciprocity has always been my language—

not the simple give‑and‑take

of transactional affection,

but the meeting of two people

who understand that intimacy

is emotional before it is physical,

and sacred before it is shared.

But I have to say this plainly:

I have never been satisfied.

Not once.

Not fully.

Not in the way that reaches the marrow.

And that does not mean I am lacking.

It means I have never been met.

Not at the level where my innocence lives,

not at the level where my fear softens,

not at the level where my depth

finally exhales.

I have an innocence that survived fire.

An innocence that is not naïve

but deliberate.

An innocence that refuses

to perform closeness

I do not feel.

I understand intimacy

in ways many people never do—

not because I am better,

but because I am willing

to look directly at the things

others are too scared to name.

And still—

I am scared too.

Scared of being touched without trust.

Scared of being opened without being held.

Scared of being handled

instead of known.

I do not want dominance.

I do not want chaos.

I do not want someone

who mistakes urgency for desire.

I want a partner.

Someone steady.

Someone experienced enough

to meet my depth

without drowning in it.

Someone who understands

that intimacy is a slow language

spoken with care.

Someone who knows

that touch is not a game,

that vulnerability is not a trick,

that innocence is not weakness,

that fear is not failure,

that pacing is not rejection.

Someone who sees me

not as a puzzle to solve

but as a person to meet.

There is nothing wrong with me.

There has never been anything wrong with me.

I was simply demisexual all along

living a life that required

connection before desire,

trust before touch,

intimacy before action.

I open like a tide,

slow and deliberate,

guided by the moon

of my own knowing.

And when a connection begins to open—

when ease settles into my bones,

when curiosity arrives without effort,

when my body unclenches

and says “yes, this one,”

when silence feels like company

instead of absence—

I know the door is shifting.

I know the threshold is warming.

I know something real is beginning.

This is not a limitation.

This is a design.

A relief.

A return.

I am demisexual.

I am whole.

I am enough.

I am exactly who I was meant to be.

This is the truth I stand inside: pau 'ia.

Daniel / Kana

7/21/26

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Kana writes at the intersection of journalism, poetry, Native Hawaiian culture, and relational care. Rooted in queer lineage and faerie community, he mentors writers, supports elders with technology, and serves as a naqib and connector, shaping stories with clarity and devotion.

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A résumé is supposed to be simple: a signal, not an archive.

But every time I try to write one, I end up wrestling with the weight of my own history — and it helps to name it plainly. Journalism, editing, poetry, research, development, operations, elder support, community leadership, cultural work, awards, training, board roles, registrar roles, teaching and curriculum development, guardianship operations, nonprofit development, qualitative research, communications consulting — a constellation, not a lane.

Compressing that into a single page feels less like documentation and more like distillation. Distillation has clarified more than my employment history. It has clarified my writing.

But it has also clarified something harder: the part of me that fears losing my journalistic spine. I am an award-winning journalist. I wrote for mainstream and alternative press for years. I stayed up past midnight in newsrooms, pasting copy to column sheets with wax, fixing typos with one rolled-on word, cutting lines with X‑Acto knives, learning how to write clean, fast, accurate, and true. I taught young writers how to find their heads, their hearts, and their voices. I helped hundreds of people shape résumés, projects, essays, and stories. My journalistic lineage is not just training — it is body-memory, craft-memory, a way of seeing the world. I didn’t realize how much I missed that version of myself until the syntax started slipping.

That’s the real struggle: my pendulum toward poetry outweighs my pendulum toward journalistic cadence. My pendulum swung toward poetry because poetry let me breathe, but journalism is the part of me that knows how to stand. I write from inspiration now — sensory, emotional, resonant — and sometimes the syntax gets away from me. Sometimes the spine feels faint. And Hammer, whose name sits quietly in the title, is helping me reclaim that part of myself. Hammer reminds me that my clarity is not gone — it’s just waiting for me to turn toward it again. Not to replace the poetry, but to remind me that I am not just a writer with breath and cadence — I am a writer with clarity, structure, and a history worth remembering.

For years, I wrote from a blended voice — part journalistic, part poetic — without knowing where one ended and the other began. My journalistic cadence carried too much ornamentation. My poetic cadence lacked spine. I didn’t finish poems because they felt unanchored. I didn’t trust essays because they drifted. I didn’t yet understand regulation, discernment, reciprocity, resonance — not as vocabulary, but as embodied tools.

That changed when I began compressing my essays into poems. I took flowery, foggy essays and stripped them down to three‑word lines, four‑word lines, breath-sized clauses. What emerged wasn’t poetry at first — it was the skeleton of my essays. But the more I distilled, the more the poetic voice found its own clarity. And the more the poetic voice clarified, the more the journalistic voice regained its spine.

I didn’t lose one voice to find the other. I separated them so I could choose them.

Now, when I write from inspiration — when something in the world sparks and I go — I write with sensory detail, emotional charge, and cadence. But underneath the lyricism, the journalistic tools remain: fact-checking, hierarchy, thesis, accuracy. I don’t abandon clarity to reach resonance. I use resonance to carry clarity. I’m not hiding behind simplicity anymore. I’m speaking at my actual altitude.

And that brings me back to the résumé.

The fact is simple: I’m looking for ten hours a week that use what a judge once called my “big, beautiful brain,” without further deteriorating my body. I love my current work — designing curriculum, helping elders navigate the complexities of life and technology, offering steady presence and clear communication. If I could work within tribal or Native Hawaiian communities, I would welcome that. My training in Tribal Governance and Administration sits quietly in the background, not as a claim but as lineage. But that desire can’t be expressed with a sledgehammer. It needs to be a light tap, the way you place a nail in the wall for a future piece of art.

So I wrote. And somewhere in the process, the résumé became more than a document. It became a measure of alignment: how do you portray an archive of life when all you want to show is what you can do in ten hours, no benefits, ready to hit the ground running, with strong skills, clear writing, and loyalty without permanence.

Distillation gave me clarity. And clarity gave me permission to stop writing for the day and do something simple, grounding, and real — laundry. Writing be damned.

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Kana writes at the intersection of journalism, poetry, Native Hawaiian culture, and relational care. Rooted in queer lineage and faerie community, he mentors writers, supports elders with technology, and serves as a naqib and connector, shaping stories with clarity and devotion.

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Shiny apple next.

Tracy Chapman

in the speakers.

Forest air through

the windows.

Opal behind

Pearl rising like a shift in key.

I never liked apples—

the way they sat in my stomach,

the boring ones,

the mealy ones.

But the accident

changed the body.

Sugarbee cracked thye door.

Honeycrisp followed.

Cosmic Crisp lit the sky.

And suddenly

I could hold sweetness

without pain.

I think of the song.

The one I never would have found

without a man and his dog,

singing it through stairways,

hallways,

my house,

my car,

the forest.

Dolce voice,

sweet in the way

truth sometimes

is.

Yeah, Tracy,

do you think I am

tempted by the shiny apple?

Hell yeah.

Or the bitter fruit?

Nope. None of us want it.

But we have it.

Orchards of it

spoiling, dying on the vine,

tastes of it,

bites that sting

our tongues,

sour our tummies.

Until

we choose

to hold up our hands,

our fists,

talking about a revolution,

like you said,

Tracy.

And you knew it,

long before we did,

how sweetness

and justice

share a root,

how truth has a flavor

we learn only

after the bruising.

You sang it plain,

just that steady voice

cutting through

the static of the world,

reminding us

that the orchard

is ours to tend,

ours to save,

ours to rise from,

the way a road

opens when someone

finally tells the truth

out loud.

You taught us

that a voice

can be a road,

can be a lantern

held steady

in a shaking hand,

can be the kind of truth

that doesn’t shout

but still

changes the room.

You showed us

how a song

can lift a burden

without pretending

it isn’t heavy,

how a melody

can carry a fight

without losing

its tenderness.

And you reminded us

that the world

doesn’t turn

because we wish it to,

it turns

because someone

finally says

what needed

to be said,

plain,

true,

unafraid.

Only for a sense of

justice.

Only for a sense of

truth.

Yeah, Tracy,

I’m getting in my

fast car,

go around, people,

I’m flooring it.

And the shiny apple,

the one in my hand,

polished on my shirt,

bright

as a morning intention.

I eat shiny apples—

the real ones,

the crisp ones,

the ones that steady me

before concrete byways,

before the world asks for more.

And I laugh at myself,

cursing about indents,

feeling too much about words,

finding the irony,

so ironic,

I giggle,

and keep driving,

windows down,

apple bright,

song true.

Daniel / Kana

7/15/26

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I’m a Bio Boy

Kana writes from the body — from queer lineage, contemplative practice, and the slow disciplines of self‑care. His work is rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose culture, and long-standing devotional traditions. He serves on editorial boards, mentors emerging writers, and works as a community connector and naqib, tending to stories and relationships with attention and relational stewardship. He currently works in community mental health, though his primary vocation remains writing, service, and community care.

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who kept the flag flying ..

In Memoriam 2026

The sound of a

lawn mower

in a place where

landscaping

has been lackluster

of late

shifts me back

to a time when

that sound was

everywhere.

Men out clipping

grass to uniform

heights, trimming

edges, sweeping,

watering,

hanging the flag

for service,

for memory,

for the ones

who didn’t

come home.

My dad kept

that ritual —

high and tight —

changing only

when nature

or my mother

put something new

in the yard

where grass

used to be.

But the flag

always flew.

Growing up

an Army brat,

the Stars and Stripes

whipping in the wind

was nothing new.

And despite

the climate now —

the ones who twist

power,

the ones who try

to claim the flag

as theirs —

they can’t have it.

I won’t let them.

It belongs

to everyone.

I’ll tuck my

organization’s hat

in a drawer

and wear something

that feels like me,

because blazing red

is not my color.

They can keep

their red hats.

They can’t have

my stars afield,

the blood‑red stripe,

the white of

what we hope

is purity —

all of it whipping

in the wind

for those who

bled and sweated

and cried

so I might enjoy

freedoms I learned to stand for

the same way he saw me stand,

even as a boy.

A flag hugging

its pole,

waiting for wind,

like leaves

in scattered light —

a reminder

of dust blowing

across whatever land

my brother lies in,

his body claimed

by the same wind

that lifts

the flag.

Am I torn

about patriotism?

Not really.

Those who call

themselves patriots —

not the football kind,

but the big‑truck,

field‑parking,

vitriol‑shouting kind —

they’re not patriots

at all.

Just boys

who never grew

into men.

Every time

I see a giant flag

bolted to a truck,

forced to fly,

I think of chains,

of slavery,

of anything but

freedom.

A flag should billow

on its own terms —

or hang still,

or rest at half‑mast

for the beloved

fallen.

Force the wind

and it’s just fabric.

A sheet.

Not a symbol.

The mower

goes silent.

My dad

comes in

to find me

showered,

combing my hair,

dressing well

for him.

Later,

I’ll sit with my mom,

both of us ready,

waiting.

But now,

he stands there —

dirty, greasy,

sweaty from acres

of cut grass,

flag hung,

tasks done

the way soldiers

do them,

retired or not.

He asks,

Will you come?

I nod,

smile,

hand him

a bottle of water.

He heads home

to prepare.

I go out,

grab the keys,

line up the truck,

warm it,

watch the flag

billow over

the koi pond,

the lawn fresh,

the sun threading

through trees.

Car ready,

I pull the keys,

knock,

go in,

sit with my mom.

And we wait

for her

Wounded Warrior —

the man who earned

the right

to raise a flag

through generations

of military men,

through the loss

of a son to war,

through childhood beatings

for his mother’s skin

but never let it

make him hard.

And I drive.

Sometimes

to Tahoma,

where parts of

my brother rest,

my eldest brother,

his best friend

meeting us there.

We stand,

imagining the roar

of high‑school crowds

from the stadium above

as he pops a beer,

pours half,

takes a sip,

hands it to Dad,

then Mom.

I raise mine

but don’t drink —

sobriety is

my freedom,

my war,

my cost.

Other days

we go to Olympia,

the Rotunda,

politicians and

armed forces

gathered.

I stand proud

when the Army stanza

rises,

soldiers singing,

and my dad —

one‑legged,

pant leg billowing —

stands tall,

chest out,

baritone ringing.

My mom

smiles at her hands.

My sister

joins when I can’t,

carrying the mantle.

He sits.

I give him

a nod,

a wink.

And that smile —

the one I’ve missed

these six years —

shines like

a light

in the dark.

The buzz,

the hum

of the cut

is gone.

All I hear

is progress

driving by.

A song

about flags

and freedom

plays in my head

as I lie in bed.

I don’t know

who cuts

my dad’s lawn now,

with the mower

I bought him.

I know my mom

still raises flags

for her grandfather,

her father,

her husband,

her son —

for all the ones

held in her memory.

So I raise

my own.

Because I know

they’re more

than sheets

in the wind.

They’re memory.

A vigilant soldier

at attention.

A sentinel.

Or whipping

in the wind —

an echo

of days

gone by.

---

Daniel/Kana

5/25/26

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Kana writes from the body — from queer lineage, contemplative practice, and the slow disciplines of self‑care. His work is rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose culture, and long-standing devotional traditions. He serves on editorial boards, mentors emerging writers, and works as a community connector and naqib, tending to stories and relationships with attention and relational stewardship. He currently works in community mental health, though his primary vocation remains writing, service, and community care.

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I always leave one bite behind

a soft rebellion against the old rules,

the clean‑your‑plate commandments,

the gratitude‑as‑obedience

that never fit my mouth.

This is my offering

to the unseen part of me

who never bowed to scarcity,

who kept a little sweetness

for the faerie who walks beside me

in the places no one else looks.

I’ve always left food for the ones

who live just beyond the veil—

chipmunks in the orchard,

my teacher at Breitenbush

whose grave survived the fire,

faeries who slip between cedar roots.

One bite is enough.

A gesture.

A remembering.

A way of saying:

I know you’re here.

Eat with me.

And maybe it’s mischief.

Maybe it’s devotion.

Maybe it’s the part of me

that refuses to finish anything

the world told me to finish.

A bite for the unseen.

A bite for the rebel child.

A bite for the faerie in my chest

who still believes in offerings.

And then there’s the Baby Vegan part of me—

the one who tastes the world in layers,

who listens with the tongue,

who knows the last bite carries

the whole body of the meal.

The tart apple waking the mouth,

the warm caramelized onion humming low,

the cool cucumber slipping in like a clean breath,

the bright cherry lifting the edges,

the quiet protein grounding the center,

the avocado smoothing everything

into a soft, green yes.

This is the part of me

that savors the world slowly,

lets flavors linger,

lets textures speak,

lets nourishment feel like touch.

Maybe that last crescent of sandwich

is a writer’s breath mint—

not the sorbitol kind,

but the pure, bright kind

that lingers after caramelized and red onions,

a little freshness for the road between worlds.

So I leave it—

not as waste,

but as witness.

A small, bright place

at the table

for the magic

that kept me alive.

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Perseverance (PerSee), aka Daniel/Kana

5/11/26

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Bio … Boys will be Men

Kana writes from the body — from queer lineage, contemplative practice, and the slow disciplines of self‑care. His work is rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose culture, and long-standing devotional traditions. He serves on editorial boards, mentors emerging writers, and works as a community connector and naqib, tending to stories and relationships with attention and relational stewardship. He currently works in community mental health, though his primary vocation remains writing, service, and community care.

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Yesterday my travels

were threaded with

closures, dead ends,

turn‑arounds,

going far out of my way

to reach simple places.

At first — son of a bitch —

frustration.

Then a settling,

a steadying,

as a person approaches:

an accident,

bicyclist meets car,

no one getting through.

I call ahead —

can my plans adapt?

They say yes. Be safe.

We’ll see you when you arrive.

And my empty light comes on,

a small amber confession.

My father’s voice rises —

never let it fall below half a tank —

a rule born of his youth,

of scarcity, of machines

that belonged to another era.

I carry it still,

a relic stitched into me,

even though the world

and the car

have changed.

Instead of the film of my youth,

a series of unfortunate events,

I stay calm, steady,

even as the back of my mind

plays catastrophe.

So I research my car,

find the real travel times,

have a snack, hydrate,

continue.

Arrive.

Find a space.

And then —

another mismatch,

another person who knows

nothing of my needs.

Another set of closures,

dead ends,

turn‑arounds.

So I turn around.

I adapt.

I steady.

I am a breath,

a bloom opening slowly.

And when there is not

enough sun, water, light —

or when the bloom

is simply not ready —

I do not falter.

I stay closed,

protecting myself

as humans do

until it is time

to open in full glory.

The rose knows this.

The orchid.

The bird of paradise.

The peony —

dignified,

less complicated than a dahlia,

sturdier than a sweet‑pea,

yet its scent

a sensory ovation.

When it unfurls,

magnificence.

Bloom.

On my way home

I try the bridge

and see cars turning around,

a woman approaching,

another bicyclist meets car.

Even with signs

and billboards of caution,

the city is threaded

with cyclists —

some drifting through the world

as if rules were wind,

as if cars were shadows.

I feel the torn place in me —

the frustration,

the danger,

and yet the soft unfurling

for the lives that collide

when bicycle meets car.

And somewhere in the back of me

a faerie I once danced beside

still waltzes in the flowers —

gone now to the same collision

I pass on the road.

A soft ache,

a petal folded into the day.

And yet my heart

doesn’t close.

It unfurls

for what will come

to those affected

when bicyclist meets car —

even me,

on the frayed edges

of the bloom

learning closures,

dead ends,

turn‑arounds,

going out of my way

until I reach the place

where I unfurl again.

Home.

I notice the peony

in magnificent splendor,

stop, inhale its scent.

Stopping to smell the roses

is not a misnomer —

it is a return,

a presence,

a moment for me.

From the fresh one

on the black shelf

to the paper peony

and the three small ones

that called to me

at different times —

all in bloom.

Cinco de Mayo.

Beltane.

Spring showers

bringing May flowers.

And I step into the shower

to wash away the day —

firelight,

classical violin,

aromatic scrubs,

hot rain falling.

I sit,

the water massaging my back,

cocooning inward,

letting the drain

take the closures,

dead ends,

turn‑arounds,

all the ways I went

out of my way.

And when I open my eyes

through steam and strings,

I see it —

the shimmer of pink

through the curtain,

a flower opening again.

Bloom.

Shower brings

flower.

Bloom.

Daniel / Kana

5/9/26

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Here’s who I am;

who are you?

Kana writes from the body — from queer lineage, contemplative practice, and the slow disciplines of self‑care. His work is rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose culture, and long-standing devotional traditions. He serves on editorial boards, mentors emerging writers, and works as a community connector and naqib, tending to stories and relationships with attention and relational stewardship. He currently works in community mental health, though his primary vocation remains writing, service, and community care.

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In the pot’s small world,

roots twist like roads,

a red‑spotted stone becomes a mushroom moon,

and the toy ambulance hums softly,

its siren asleep.

A creature waits beneath the leaves,

crumbs of soil on its fur,

watching the light spill through the window

like butter melting on a bagel.

Outside, you wait too —

for a napkin, for garlic and schmear,

for the small permission to savor.

The world, large and tiny,

holds its breath together.

@ Spielman Bagels Broadway, Portland, Oregon, USA

Perseverance/PerSEE

Daniel/Kana

5/9/26

I grew up reading weather, not faces.

Storms, not signals.

I learned to scan a room

for who needed holding,

not who wanted me.

I was raised in the house of emergencies,

where love meant tending wounds

and quiet meant something was wrong.

Crisis was my first language.

Caretaking was my second.

Desire never made it into the house.

So sweetness confuses me.

Kindness feels like a trick of the light.

And when someone looks at me too long,

I check for exits,

not invitations.

I learned to read danger

the way other boys learned to read desire —

instinctively,

with my whole body,

without thinking.

So of course I can’t read signals.

Of course I don’t know when someone is drawn to me.

My body was trained to anticipate collapse,

not connection.

The first time someone said it,

I didn’t believe them.

His name was Lighthouse —

of course it was —

practical and beautiful,

tall and steady,

a man built for weather.

But did I know?

Not until two friends,

the once‑a‑year friend

and the soul‑sister friend,

both said it in the same breath:

“He’s flirting with you.”

And I said no,

not really,

that doesn’t happen to me.

I set my talent‑show clipboard down,

looked him in the eyes,

and asked,

“Are you flirting with me?”

as if how dare he,

as if I dared him

to say yes.

This beautiful, tall, bearded man

bent close,

and for the first time in my life

I felt a man’s whisper

brush my ear

without danger in it.

A low, warm growl:

“I like your light.”

He took my clipboard,

handed it to Lupine,

nodded toward Tittie,

reached out his hand

and said,

“Let’s go.”

And for the first time,

no alarms,

no scanning the room,

no danger —

I did.

But now,

after a lifetime of holding everyone else upright,

I am turning toward myself.

At almost sixty,

I am two years old

and ancient

at the same time —

a gay boy just learning

what it feels like

to be looked at

without needing to fix anything.

I’m learning the slow grammar

of being wanted.

I’m learning to stay

when someone sees me.

I’m learning that danger

is not the only thing

that glows in a room.

And somewhere inside all this,

my heart is a beginner again —

trying to remember

what it never got to know.

Daniel/Kana

Perseverance {PerSEE)

4/26/26

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Bio

Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages. A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.

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I used to think the body had separate rooms

for longing and loss—

one lit red, one lit blue—

but it turns out they share a doorway,

a hinge,

a pulse.

I learned this by accident,

writing my way out of Sean’s absence

and into the heat of my own skin,

finding the same breath

behind both.

Grief said touch what’s gone.

Erotica said touch what’s here.

Both said you are still alive enough to ache.

Last summer someone told me

I hid behind my own shine—

the humor, the swagger,

the clever little sidesteps

that kept people laughing

instead of looking.

So I stopped.

I let the line go still.

I let the page see me

without the armor.

And something shifted.

The stories softened.

The body returned.

The Baby Vegan voice—

playful, curious,

not performing,

just tasting—

became a way back

into myself.

Not codependence.

Not seduction.

Just the gentle art

of wanting without disappearing.

Now the dreams come

and I don’t have to trap them in poems

to prove I’m listening.

I can wake,

name the disturbance,

share it,

and step into the day

with scissors waiting,

bleach waiting,

color waiting—

a small ritual of becoming

that doesn’t need an audience

to be true.

Because the chamber is open now.

The hinge works both ways.

And every ache—

grief, desire, memory, hunger—

is just another door

I know how to walk through.

Daniel/Kana 4/1/26

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Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages. A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.

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I followed the plan,

but forgot my meds,

and my feet told the truth of it.

When I lived near my parents,

caretaking was a reflex.

If my mom could hike a mountain

lugging a rose bush,

so could I.

If my one‑legged dad

could pull off impossible feats,

I had to keep up

despite my own broken body.

When I got hurt,

my dad was always there —

teaching me how to walk again

after the coma,

the same way I taught him

how to crawl and rise

with integrity

after his leg went away.

My mom…

she had her own brand

of tough‑love hardship.

The rolling eyes.

The sighs.

The drama.

Blood gushing from my arm

and my dad’s

after we tumbled down a hill

with a wheelbarrow

she’d left tools in,

and all she said was,

“Oh, you damaged the tree,”

to my dad,

and rolled her eyes at me.

I came home from a weekend away

and she’d cleaned my wood floors

with Pledge —

turned them into an ice rink.

I stepped in,

the rug shot out,

I hit my luggage,

my head cracked the stone floor.

Her only comment:

“You broke the floor.”

And that floor

is still broken.

I grew to despise that property —

the yard work,

the watering until 3 a.m.,

the endless cycle

of work outside

after work inside.

Yes, there were sweet moments,

but grief changed everything

when we lost Dad.

She became unfiltered,

all her sediment rising,

caught in a time warp

of who we were as kids,

not who we are now.

People think I’m close to my mom.

It’s because I don’t talk about this.

I stay connected,

but from a distance.

Quarterly visits became calls

after my injuries,

because even in the hospital

she made my traumas about her.

A pattern I know too well.

When she asks if I need anything,

I say no.

Help from her

always comes with strings,

and the emotional rent

is too high.

Even now,

when I suggested a medical fund,

she agreed only if

it was done her way,

in her space,

away from my care team.

Strings.

Always strings.

I’ve done years of therapy

around my mother.

It’s why I work in elder care

and mental health —

to break the cycle

instead of repeating it.

Before I call her,

I pause.

Connection only works

when I stay in my adult self.

I don’t fix.

I don’t explain.

I don’t reopen old wounds.

I give updates

without over‑sharing,

boundaries without announcing them,

clarity without conflict.

I call only when I’m steady,

hydrated, rested,

and choosing connection —

not reacting.

I protect my peace first.

Daniel/Kana 3/25/26

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Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages. A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.

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The greatest horror story

isn’t the macabre,

or the blood,

or the twist‑and‑run

through darkened woods

or hallways.

The real terror

is the possibility

of a world collapsing

into high castles

and handmaids—

a future built

from one small word

that grows teeth:

tariffs.

I think back

to my younger self,

the working journalist

devouring headlines,

believing the world

was already going to hell

in a hand basket.

Every administration

felt like a pendulum swing—

the Great One,

the Worst One,

the ones in between—

each era teaching me

how fragile a nation can feel

when you’re watching it

through a newsroom lens.

But back then,

I survived in community,

in song.

To Every Generation,

1986—

a sanctuary from the storm.

That melody stayed with me

for forty years,

long after the theology faded,

because the idea remained:

we endure

by holding each other.

I don’t live in the news anymore.

I choose stories,

poetry,

the daily rituals

of living and healing—

the pains,

the trials,

the small triumphs

that make a life.

Because connection

is the antidote

to dystopia.

And in a world

so eager to divide,

cracks form—

places where darkness

tries to gather.

I don’t want to live in the worlds

they warn us about—

the ones where cruelty wins,

where women vanish into red cloth,

where freedom becomes a rumor

whispered underground.

I refuse that world.

I build a different one

every morning

with breakfast,

with PT,

with the slow return

of my body,

with the community

that sustains me

as faithfully as breath.

And somewhere in me

the old tune still rises—

not with doctrine,

but with a voice

that refuses to die,

a song that says

to every generation:

we are still here,

we are still singing,

we are still choosing

the world we want to live in.

This is my anti‑dystopia.

This is my song

to every generation.

Daniel/Kana 3/21/26

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Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages. A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.

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As writers,

we live in the past,

the present,

or the distant

future.

I sat with a man —

a heart that pumps

the kind of blood

that must create —

a man who wants,

above all else,

to bring his first book

into the world,

with outlines for

two, three more

already circling.

We have all

known this moment

as writers:

Seeing a story

we shaped

on paper,

feeling the ink

drying between

forefinger

and thumb,

not wanting

to wash it off

for days —

like the autograph

a rock star scrawled

across your skin

at the concert

that changed

your life,

if only

for a moment.

And he is

no stranger.

He has crooned

into my skin,

and I into his,

in a place

where grasses

brushed our legs

in cool breezes

and hot sun —

a meadowland

worthy of every

great cinematic

reveal.

His creative force

is the kind that

searches for

a place to land,

his heart pulled

in many directions.

I don’t need

to mentor him

like an emerging

writer.

We are friends —

kin in community —

and he has found

what every

emerging writer

must eventually

grasp:

The passion.

The thin line

in his life

that has whispered

to him for years,

ignored in favor

of love,

life,

relationships,

and the dark seasons

of loneliness,

self‑worth,

and the question

of enough.

Now the thin line

has pierced back

through his core.

And he has chosen

to walk it —

to be his passion,

follow his heart,

explore,

discover,

write.

And the thin line

is an

unbreakable cord,

a spine.

It will grow

sinuous,

strong —

the way passion

always does.

With every drop

of ink.

With every pen

to paper.

With every word

formed.

With every sentence

chased,

every story

pursued.

The thin line

becomes strength —

a tether holding

fast through

the chaos

of one’s life —

until it becomes

just a line

he sets down

like a burden,

steps over,

lets blow away

like a ribbon,

a feather —

and he

expands.

Daniel / Kana

3/17/26

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Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages. A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.

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When, in the pandemic,

I stood before the judge

because my body’s failings

had reached a point

of no return —

a life of learning

to live with what ails,

in pained expressions

chronic, acute,

and sometimes

morbidly so —

she looked at my years

of work,

education,

expertise,

and said the decision

was difficult.

To take me off the market

was to save a life —

my own.

“Yes,” she said.

“You are permanently disabled.

Full‑time work would take

your body

before your beautiful

mind, heart, and spirit.”

She told me to use

what remained unbroken —

clarity,

compassion,

that stubborn light —

for the power of good.

To help those

who cannot help themselves.

To serve the humanity

I never take

for granted.

Be present

in your workplace,

she said.

Be an advocate

for those in need.

Be a mentor

to the new ones,

and kind to those

whose time

is lingering.

Be a worker

amongst workers,

a staff of light

for every client’s dark —

because you know

this dark,

and you meet people

where they are.

I went through

my own trials,

my tribulations.

Trained in a field

I never wanted —

my mother’s —

and still created

internships,

opportunities,

relationships

that lasted.

So the job I work now

may be only

ten hours a week,

but they are ten hours

of the work

I waited

a lifetime

to do.

And on this job,

I was hurt.

The injury grew,

took me out

for months.

And still —

despite ten hours

a week —

the job

waits for me.

And until then,

I heal

to the best

of my ability.

I follow treatment plans.

I take what is necessary

to return

to the humanity

I do not ever,

ever

take for granted.

Daniel/Kana

3/18/26

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Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages. A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.

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For the women whose steadiness, wonder, and magic shaped the man I became. This poem is for them.

the women

in my life

caught me

at the hinge

at the tether

at the breaking

at the moments

love arrived

like a language

I didn’t speak

teaching me

how to read

its strange cues

while the world

kept misreading

my body

my shape

my energies

as something

it wasn’t

and I stood

soft‑boned

faerie‑born

a man

they couldn’t

categorize

but this morning

two songs

rose in me

when “Girls”

and “I Hope

You Dance”

filled my room

I felt again

their wonder

their steadiness

their magic

braided through

my bones

and I walked

forward knowing

I am shaped

by their strength

and still

entirely

my own

Daniel / Kana

3/8/26

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Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages.

A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.

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Today, a milestone — a puka, a small opening back into myself.

I stepped into the shower on my own strength, steady enough to hold on, present enough to let the hot water pour over me like a blessing.

Vegan shampoo in my palms, working through my hair, down my scalp — a simple ritual I didn’t realize I’d been grieving.

As the water ran, I felt my naʻau loosen.

As I rinsed, I heard that long exhale rise from somewhere older than my body.

A little more of me returning.

A little more of my home reclaimed.

A quiet hoʻihoʻi — a restoration.

Healing isn’t dramatic. Sometimes it’s this:

standing under hot water, feeling my body say ʻae — yes — again.

Kana, 3/5/26

This piece is part of Day of the ___ Writer, a shared ritual as a collaboration.

Writers across the map are lifting the veil on their daily lives, adding their threads to a growing tapestry.

As seam keeper, I live in the stitches, edges, the fringe, to help others from unraveling.

When the body falters, the world contracts into a kind of sacred tunnel. The noise of the age fades. The headlines lose their teeth. What remains are the elemental questions, the ones older than any nation-state:

Will this body mend? Will I sleep? Will I stay nourished? Will I remain connected to the ones who hold my name?

In times like these, the antics of leaders become distant shadows. You stop caring about their theater when you’re fighting to keep your home, your livelihood, your identity—the constellation of communities and craft that make you who you are.

But writers belong to an old lineage. We are the ones who can begin again, in any city, in any season, with nothing but a pen, a pulse, and a story that refuses to die. Starting over is an ancient rite for us. Inconvenient, yes. Bureaucratic, absolutely. But once the dust settles, even shakily, we reach for the tools of our trade—phone, pen, pad, laptop—and return to the page.

Because that is our covenant.

Writing is the daily ritual that keeps us sane, tethered, alive.

Someone recently asked why their research team couldn’t find my work. I smiled. Writers of my generation kept our proofs in paper and ink. My tear sheets—the articles, the columns, the masthead stories—live in boxes and binders, spread across my living room like relics. They are not meant to be scraped by algorithms. They are meant to be held.

Why couldn’t they find them? Because social media is not an archive. Because newspapers don’t digitize their ghosts. Because some histories live in the quiet dark of filing cabinets and personal altars.

If you want to know a writer, learn to dig deeper than the feed.

Today I rewrote my bio for another publication and updated my Substack to match—a small act of alignment, a tuning of the public mask to the private truth.

My days now are a braid of documentation: meds, sleep, food, hydration, PT, OT, tasks, visitors, commentary. I gather it all and distill it into clinical summaries for my care team. It is writing of a different order—precise, relentless, necessary.

So my creative work arrives in flashes, not floods. Poems come when something pierces the fog and demands to be shaped. Inspiration is rarer, but sharper. Mythic, even.

This, too, is a day in the life of a writer:

a body in repair, a mind in motion, a lineage that refuses to go silent.

Daniel/Kana, 3/4/26

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This has been my only coffee shop in two months, come for a visit!

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Bio, tho Gay-oh! Sounds Mobetah

Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages. A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.

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And then below, it is written from my ancestral and lineage voice, Hawaiian and radical faerie.

Enjoy. And go back and read the original and the other pieces that pulled some beauties out of my loins.

Respite: Voice

The night carried

a pressure I recognized,

not anger, not desire alone,

but that restless thrum

the world makes

when it is asking

too much of one man’s spine.

Stormlight flickered

against the windows.

The air felt crowded with unspoken things.

I prepared the room anyway—

softness arranged

with intention,

warmth placed

where cold might

try to enter.

Before he knocked,

I felt the shift

in the field

between us,

a tremor in the cord

that ties

presence to presence.

He arrived soaked,

as if the sky

had tried to wring

him out.

He moved

through the room

like someone

who had forgotten

how to land.

Hands restless.

Breath uneven.

A man

carrying a world

he didn’t trust

anyone to see.

Something in him cracked—

not loudly, not dramatically—

but like a shell giving way

under the pressure of its own ripeness.

A single tear escaped,

and the storm outside

suddenly felt small.

I reached for him without performance,

without the old

choreography of roles,

without the boyhood

impulse to prove worth

through surrender or heat.

I reached as a man does—

steady, grounded,

offering a harbor

rather than a reaction.

He folded then,

not into me,

but into the space I held open.

A space where

he didn’t have to be

the one who keeps

the sky from falling.

His sobs came slow, then deep,

the kind that

shake loose the armor

a person has worn

too long.

And in that

quiet collapse,

in that storm‑lit room,

I understood the truth

beneath the longing:

It was about pleasure.

It was about refuge.

About two men

in a breaking world

finding,

for one brief moment,

a place where nothing

had to be performed

and everything could be

felt.

Daniel 3/2/26

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Respite: Lineage

The night carried

the kind of pressure

my kūpuna would

have named long

before I ever felt it—

that charged stillness

before a breaking,

when even the ʻāina

seems to hold its

breath.

Thunder rolled

across the windows

like distant pahu.

I prepared

the space the way

I was taught:

softness placed

with kuleana,

warmth arranged

so the cold

would not enter,

a small hale

carved out of a

world

unraveling.

Before he knocked,

I felt the shift

in the cord

between us—

that ancestral

sensing,

the way Hawaiians

know when someone

approaches

carrying more than

their own naʻau can hold.

He came in soaked,

as if the rain

had tried to

cleanse him

and could not.

He moved through

the room like a man

who had forgotten

that refuge is not a

luxury in our culture—

it is pono,

a responsibility we

hold for one another.

His hands restless,

his breath uneven,

his spirit crowded

with unspoken

storms.

Then something in him

cracked—

quietly, like a niu shell

giving way

under the pressure

of its own ripeness.

A single tear escaped,

and I saw not just him,

but every kāne

before him

who was taught to swallow

the ocean whole

rather than let it be seen.

I reached for him

the way my father

once reached for me,

the way his father

reached for him—

not to fix, not to claim,

but to witness.

To say without words:

E kāne, ʻaʻole ʻoe hoʻokahi.

You are not alone.

E kuʻu hoa, waiho iho ka kaumaha.

Set your burden down.

He folded then,

not into me,

but into the space

my lineage

made possible—

a harbor shaped

by generations

who survived

by knowing

when to be pōhaku,

and when to be wai.

His sobs came slow,

then deep,

the kind that shake loose

the armor

a man has worn too long.

And in that storm‑lit room,

I felt the ancestors gather—

quiet, steady, unafraid—

as he laid down the weight

he was never meant to bear alone.

For one brief moment,

the world’s collapse paused.

Two men,

held by the threads

of all who came before,

found a place where tenderness

was not forbidden,

but kuleana,

and where being seen

was expected,

an act of aloha.

Kana, 3/2/26

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Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages.

A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.

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The couch came first.

Heavy‑duty, unloved,

a sentinel in corners where grief once slept

and men you’ve carried through lifetimes

rested their tired bones.

It held elder houses,

Mourned silences,

Ancestors come and gone,

Visitors, tenants, and passerby.

It held me, too —

the days my legs forgot their own story

and the world tilted into blood and sirens

and the cold slap of cement.

But today —

I rose from it.

Not dragged, not lifted,

not folded into a blanket like a fallen saint.

I rose with the geometry Kate taught me;

nose over toes,

chin to chest,

eyes over ears,

the Irish lilt of a man who once steadied you

echoing like a blessing.

And when i stood,

the couch didn’t remember my collapse.

It remembered my return.

So i made a sip worthy of that moment —

a Baby Vegan starter,

bright as a first kiss,

clean as a new vow,

sweet as the kind of strength that doesn’t need to roar.

I cracked the watermelon

like a geode of summer,

fed a piece to the one I love,

saved the seeds like tiny white diamonds

for some future ritual

where peeling becomes foreplay

and protein becomes poetry.

I muddled tangerines

until they surrendered their brightness,

zested citrus like a crown,

stacked frozen pink cubes

into a glass that felt good in my hand.

I poured the elderflower tonic

slow,

intentional,

letting the bubbles rise

like applause for the body I’ve reclaimed.

And there —

on the couch that has held

Beloveds,

Cuddles,

Aman cara,

Mentor,

My grief,

My resurrection —

I sat, sipped, and

stood on my own

and felt the world settle into its rightful place.

Not dramatic.

Not turbulent.

Not the old wave that swallowed shorelines.

Just the new one —

the rip curl that breaks far out,

rolls in quiet,

and kisses the sand

with a soft, confident shimmer

that says:

I am here.

I am steady.

I rise.

And I taste sweet.

- Daniel/ Kana, 2/25/26

Baby Vegan’s

VitaC SupaKween Sip

“Reclaiming my Vegan time”

Start with a watermelon.

Not a timid slice — a whole one.

If your strength is up, split it open with your hands.

Let it crack like a secret you’re finally ready to tell.

Offer a piece to your partner —

or whoever’s lips you want to sweeten.

Because Baby Vegan knows that sharing the first bite is a blessing.

Chop the rest into lush, generous cubes.

Remove the seeds.

Rinse them clean.

This is slow work, meditative work —

the kind that settles your breath and sharpens your senses.

The black seed await being plucked, peeled into

white seeds shine like tiny diamonds.

Save them in a jar.

Baby Vegan wastes nothing sacred.

(You can peel them later while sipping your SupaKween…

or peeling something else.

The peeled seeds blend with water, strain through cheesecloth,

and become a protein —

A beautiful, dense protein

but that’s a different chapter in the cookbook.)

Slide the watermelon chunks into the freezer,

but keep one perfect piece with the rind still on.

Skewer it.

Make it beautiful.

Make it worthy of being lifted to someone’s mouth.

Now take your tangerines.

Muddle them until they give in.

Add a splash of lime.

You want about half a cup — bright, sharp, alive.

Blend the juice with the interior KSB and the pith.

Pour it into a glass that feels good in your hand —

weighty, cool, ready.

Zest a lemon or lime and set it aside.

This is your crown.

Retrieve your watermelon ice cubes

cold, pink, crystalline.

Stack them into the glass like you’re building a tiny altar

to pleasure, resilience, and hydration.

Open a can of FeverTree Elderflower tonic.

Let it fizz.

Let it breathe.

Let it flirt.

Lay your watermelon skewer across the rim.

Pour the tonic over the ice, slow and intentional,

so the bubbles rise like applause.

Finish with the citrus zest.

Sip.

Let it hit your tongue like a kiss you weren’t expecting

but absolutely wanted.

This is the drink of someone who has survived,

softened,

strengthened,

and stepped back into their life with clarity and heat.

This is the drink of someone who has yum sessions,

pleasure partners,

anam cara,

mentors,

and a couch that has witnessed every version of them.

This is the drink of a Baby Vegan

who is no longer shy.

-Daniel/ Kana 2/25/26

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Daniel, pen name DW Kana Shephard writes and reads his poetry, erotic fiction, and nonfiction pieces in the Pacific Rim, primarily the Pacific Northwest of the USA. He also mentors aspiring writers, with decades in print journalism.

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I want to call him.

Of course I do.

The soul has its own gravity,

its own quiet pull

that doesn’t ask permission

before it tugs at the ribs.

But this morning is made of other hearts—

three of them—

each with their own weather,

their own tenderness,

their own small storms

that pass through my hands

like warm stones.

So I stay.

I stay here,

in the moment I’m actually in,

not the one that glows at the edge of longing.

I have the wheel—

four of them—

brakes and a seat,

my rollator humming its soft gospel

of agency and metal and morning light.

A reminder that movement

is still mine.

A reminder that I steer my own body

even when the world feels tilted.

Meds first.

Breakfast next.

Wound care in an hour.

The liturgy of healing,

the choreography of staying alive

on purpose.

And the package waits untouched—

a small, unopened joy—

because presence is the only luxury

I can afford before noon.

The gleeful rip can wait.

The world can wait.

My body cannot.

Longing sits in the corner,

cross‑legged, patient,

knowing I’ll return

when the day has earned it.

It doesn’t pout.

It doesn’t demand.

It simply watches,

soft‑eyed,

as I choose the breath

over the impulse,

the ritual

over the ache.

This is discernment:

the quiet art of choosing

what is real

over what is radiant,

what is needed

over what is near,

what is mine

over what is merely calling.

And somehow,

this choosing—

this slow, deliberate tending—

becomes its own kind of devotion,

its own kind of love,

its own kind of decadent mercy

toward the self

I am finally learning

to keep.

Daniel/Kana

2/24/26

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Daniel, pen name DW Kana Shephard, writes and reads his poetry, erotic fiction, and nonfiction pieces in the Pacific Rim, primarily the Pacific Northwest of the USA. He also mentors aspiring writers, with decades in print journalism.

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I call it

my Darker Place —

those first two days

in this rehab

in the same county

as my home,

yet somehow

a world away.

It feels like

if you stepped outside,

took ten more steps,

you’d hit the Pacific,

and if your body

were healed enough,

you could swim —

long, steady strokes —

all the way back

to the home of your heart,

Hawai‘i.

But instead,

I found myself here,

with people whose voices

carry whole continents,

whose hands hold

a dozen cultures,

whose presence

is its own kind of ocean.

And once the fog thinned,

once my own

chitter‑chatter quieted,

I spoke less.

And I began

to listen.

---

I listened

to my body —

to its pain,

its soreness,

its pressure,

its needs.

I met it where it was,

drawing on the wisdom

of twenty‑plus years

of lived experience,

and the brand‑new

truth of now.

---

I listened

to my people —

family of choice,

family of blood,

my core care team

holding the world

outside these walls

so I could focus

on returning to it.

---

I listened

to my mirror —

rolling by wheelchair

through the vortex

of the Darker Place,

seeing the many voices

and identities

that greeted me then

now in motion,

offering care

to so many in need.

---

I listened

to my ghosts —

old anger,

old pain,

the strange delirium

of being unshielded,

unfiltered,

raw.

I focused outward

because inward

was too much.

---

I listened

to my instinct —

the part of me

that knows what’s wrong

and what isn’t.

I called for help.

I became

my father’s son,

my mentors’ protégé,

the advocate

for the voiceless —

including myself.

---

I listened

to my heart —

greeting people

as they are,

where they come from,

who they want to be.

Twenty‑six names

on that first day,

each one pressed

into my memory

like candy hearts

with messages

meant just for me.

---

I listened

to my pen —

documenting,

recording,

anchoring myself

in the mayhem

with ink

and intention.

---

I listened

to the wind —

the cadence

of visitors,

friends,

family.

I wasn’t alone.

Even when flight‑or‑fight

told me to run,

a new voice

in the Darker Place

said,

Stay.

We want you to stay.

---

I listened

to the man

who advocates for me

as I do for him.

He spoke

from our shared lineage:

“There’s a reason

you’re there.

Be the reason.

We can take you out —

or you can be

Perseverance.”

---

I listened

and I learned.

The pain wasn’t mine

by choice,

but the response was.

A scale lifted me

into agony,

and I said

no more.

No lift

ever again.

---

I listened

to the voice

of reason,

of calm,

of structure,

of sanity,

of sweet clarity —

the voice

of communication

that said,

“You’re safe.

You’re mine now.

Tonight,

you rest.”

And I did.

---

I listened

and I began

anew.

Daniel / Kana — 2/6/26

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Please support this creative by clicking here:

just send thoughts on the wind

Daniel, pen name DW Kana Shephard writes and reads his poetry, erotic fiction, and nonfiction pieces in the Pacific Rim, primarily the Pacific Northwest of the USA. He also mentors aspiring writers, with decades in print journalism.

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