Saturday, August 22, 2020

Tacky Hawaiian Shorts: North - By Stuart Warren

North

Corrugated metal and patchwork bracing hold them together, the forgotten Victorian storefronts along the sparse Akoni Pule Highway. The road terminates at Polou, where wild guava and coconut line the trail down into the valley. Driftwood shifts in the roiling grey waters, traversing blackened sand and decimated stones. The deafening valley howls. Crashing waves, then the receding of water.

 

The ones left behind carry on, despite the inclement conditions. Paradise lost to the progression of time and the markings of colonists. The sweet smell of chicken braising in coconut milk wafts through the air, and with it laughter and gossip, in celebration of another day completed in the company of friends. A depreciated flat screen rolls ESPN highlights in the adjacent dining room. The static washes over them.

Friday, August 7, 2020

Tacky Hawaiian Shorts: West - By Stuart Warren

 West

Two women with calloused hands haggle in a prop-up tent. Vendors eye each other suspiciously, unboxing imported merchandise. Trinkets and baubles. Captured essence of island life made by the hands of children thousands of miles away. The coffee is “Kona”. One pound for twenty-four dollars. “I’ll give it to you for twenty,” says a Filipino woman.

The Martian desert lies above the tourist alcoves, parched by the exhausted wind; a dry heat. Golf carts roam in herds on distant greens. Lonely highways, arrested by total darkness in the quiet hours, lit only by sickly torches of fluorescent light. Beaches, purified by time, covered in plastic awnings, are serviced by the true wards in the shadow of Pu’ukohola.


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.