Sunday, August 2, 2020

Tacky Hawaiian Shorts: East - By Stuart Warren


East

From the mouth of hell, ground water flows into the windswept ocean. A grove of coconut trees hedges the warm spring, but none walk below them. The sweet spot is by the mouth of the inlet, where the sand churns beneath the surface, and the fish are lost in the debris clouds. Sweeter in memories past, this place is now lost for all time, beneath the flow of Kilauea.


The white noise, like crashing waves, or passing traffic on the rural route, is deafening. They aren’t supposed to be here, the frogs. In the viridian groves, they encroach but cannot be turned away. Shafts of light pierce the clouds overhead, technicolor horizons in the late afternoon rainstorms. From the antiquated living room, near the sliding door to the deck, a gecko carcass rots. It’s covered in fire ants.

Saturday, August 1, 2020

Tacky Hawaiian Shorts: South - By Stuart Warren




South

The rain comes down the enameled metal surface, streams deviating as etched crevasses recall seasons and generations. The rusty playground is site to another tropical downpour in the southern-most territory of the United States. A soaked flag wags limp, hoisted over volcanic masonry.




Golden fields contain lost civilizations. The withered carapace of a wind generator lies like a fallen megalith. Local ranchers tend to fleets of defunct machinery as tourists traverse their land. The earth is scorched by voracious cattle. Living leather purses, filled with bones, watch the rust punk revolution unfold.