Honolulu

Dylan Little begins his debaucherous career as Ka Lamakua's new associate editor with his poetic urban ode

by Dylan Little

I have never been your son, Honolulu.

You have a concrete heart

made of skyscrapers and parking structures.

It pumps oil and smog through veins

of overpopulated streets and long highways.

Your liver filters out education and compassion,

while your lungs and kidneys grow weak,

clogged with the remnants of the old and the poor.

Honolulu the conquered:

the greedy, the wasteful, the American.

You sold your coastline and natural beauty

for more concrete, cars, and charisma;

more kitsch and tourist dollars,

and consolation from poisoned crystal brews.

When will you begin leveling your mountains

for more hotels and real estate?

Honolulu, you're a parasitic paradise.

But Honolulu, I grew inside you.

Your land was my womb;

and when you hurt, Honolulu,

I hurt with you in desperate harmony.

As you trudge along the Pacific,

now more machine than earth,

I cannot help but feel, even as I leave,

Honolulu, I will always be your son.