Polihale

On the dry, desolate far west shore of Kauai,
under the black fluted palisades of Polihale,
golden dunes vanish beneath the sea. The
earth spins, drawing me back into the eastern
dusk. Out west, beyond the horizon, a
violent sky slowly mellows, succumbing to
the stars. There are no people here. The warm
wind is both comforting and hauntingly lonely,
like an indifferent companion on a long journey.
The thorn scrub creaks and rustles. A presence
is here, primeval and ancient, conjuring a
vague, instinctual longing in my gut. People
lived here long ago, the first people to arrive
here, but no more.

On the south shore of Oahu, in the shot-out
meth dusted neighborhoods west of Chinatown
i startle a young Hawaiian woman smoking ice
as I drive down an alley. Our eyes lock, her
gaze burns, like the pain of grieving ancestors.
She just puts the flame closer to the glass and
pulls harder on the pipe, and I look away and
drive on.

Journal entry, Hawaii, 2006