Back in Miami,
the beach high from a synthetic reef.

Liquid night pours
from sweating lamplight pours
around swirls through me
like the juice of a limp diseased
breath from a Gorgon mongrel bitch.

Walk. Walk.

Through the cocaine stares
and shiny wheelchair rollers -
salutations bro! -
old fat man singin' inaudibly
fat scar on his protruding belly.

Drunk wife curlers
in her hair
mumbling what I don't care.

White man
head broken
in a curse rested
in the palm
of his bland hand
the slime and grime
evenly distributed from Washington
Street to his dying skin.

Past the teen girl
with the blonde perm curls
in the gray steel nothin' car
stop
for the red light
her soul a flaccid manicured
hand on the stick shift.

There's the club with no rub
for me to night
and once inside
I'm in for a ride
the jive I deride
don't mean much
just don't touch.

At the bar the buck goes
I give the guy a five
he's pleased:
"What do I need?".

Spandex latex eyes
ricochet around his cut lies.

Too hard
at the disco bar
music so loud so dark
I can't hear
or see it's just a lark
so I walk.

Walk.

Up and down Ocean
there's no God
only the humid chill up
the crest of a dead wave.

Shit.

I'm too fucking old.

Miami.

Town of the sun.

Don't ask questions,
make suggestions.

Laugh a little, spend a lot of money.

Maybe if you're stupid, you'll get lucky.

Life's a beach or an ice cream stand
or a bar with a hunk of a man
or a blonde boy with a tan
and a tight slut butt
or a cold beer in a busted plastic cup
or an old man gropin' his son
or two boys trickin' tourists
lookin' like cupids on the crack
lookin' for coin
don't look back
what they left behind
they don't know
suck that cock
and go go go.

You're gone.

In the blind sun.

Jelly fish so you won't swim.

Too damn hot: gotta jump in.

Give up your tracks to a whore
it don't mean nothin'
so jump in.

Go get wet.

Death.

Paralysis.

Psychoanalysis.

It's all in your head
when you go to bed
forget it's Miami.

Miami.

Town on the Sun.

Young kids snort past old ones.

I know I saw I did I gave I crave.

Palm trees.

Swayin' the lousy breeze.

Each time the gentle arthritic crippled curve
of branded asymmetric trunk smell
of the coconut grease
on my fired skin: smell
the sand through my feet: smell
the grit between my teeth.

Palm trees
curved like an old lady's back.

Walk. Walk.

No lost life: never had one.

Young Cuban kids lookin' for some action.

Fit in: go get blonded.

If you get busted, get bonded.

Brown teeth smile not discreetly.

Another death to greet me.

Even if ya know,
can't say no.

Walk.

Maimi,
it's so cool to sweat in public places.

Stare and belch in faces
funny times splash in pool
drunk fool
another guy who'd fuck a mule.

Take a snort don't smoke weed
I'll give up an itch you don't need
but then I hold firm
I know I'm losin' my rhythm my burn
my greed.

Just hang on.

Make anothah dollah.

Till the next time I can get back to Miami.

It's the only one.

East coast hot muffin and coffee undrunk.

She smiled.

She loves another one.

He's spiritual.

He's Christian.

He's got her in the missionary position.

He comes blows scum
she cries he's dumb.

So what?

I care.

Who cares?

Nice meal
what a deal
lobster yellow tail
white wine what's more?

Jokin'
with the waiter who can't
serve seriously rappin'
the skins
with the killer curves.

Empty nailed
face like a jail
two souls prayin' for release
kiss those eyes close in peace.

Norwegian bus tour
gets the soup du jour
molested contested arrested and bested
by young kids.

No brains.

Blasted crafted
jackassed rockin' rollers with rich Dads
horney Moms largely deserted
a sip of Cognac and you're
back on the street
the rubble under your holy callused feet
it hurts.

Each step
of pain a remembrance
of a waste that's still
your life to lose.

So it's still
Miami.

And walk
you walk
the walk
to stalk
your self.

The self
you're leavin'
in the safety deposit box she's keepin'
home for you,
whatever that is.

And the palm trees,
curled like the fingers of a dead tourist.

Clouds sunlit from underneath
the reef.
Clouds like ruffles
of Latino girls
dress as she wiggles
past the bouncers.

Sails
with the curve of a distant taught
membrane.

Smooth
pull through astonished waters.

Boys and Girls their Nipples dot the beach
I reach
for them
through my memory
what they mean
to me.

I'm lonely and bored
ashore
checkin' out the sea gulls.

Squakin' to each other
hey yo bro' dig the fish
down we go
that Pelican.

Ripped us off again.

The lurch of a love
of a lie
of a life.

Who's kidding whom if not myself . . .

It's Miami.

And it weighs a ton.

Big fat mama breaks the cement.

She's got a husband
who's only a stick
couldn't dent her flesh
with a ten inch dick.

Volley the balls in back behind
the dunes
young ripped lads spikin'
and swearin'
and darin'
they do it again.

Do what?

It don't mean much.

Just the touch
of an empty soul
on a vapid roll
to a drug home.

Happy now but dead later.

The old folks don't know where
they are.

Look lost and tired
as they stare
at the tires
of the new cars
old cars
past the rock bars.

Palm trees
sag beneath their dead leaves.

Up and down
Ocean
Boulevard.

Renovated Art Deco hotels hasten
decay before the hurricane
that always misses
Miami.

Tropics.

Cleveland.

Warsaw.

The Decca.

Club Nu.

I danced
I drank
I farted in them all.

And I walk.

I walk Miami.

It doesn't matter 'cause
who would understand me?

I'm older
and bolder
but more detach
each new phrase is just rehash.

The same old line.

Mine.

Smile.

You've gotta new suit on.

You're old and superficial.

You fit right in
with your grin
and white teeth
beneath
which your tongue
squirms incessantly,
hypnotically.

They love you.

They don't know you.

The leaves
of the palm trees
ruffle
like a sand paper shuffle.

Short pimply blonde boy
oversized T- Shirt wide
black shorts untied
white sneaks.

Young Latino girl with
her fingers of her right
hand tapping on his back.

Cute short black dress,
perfect fifteen year old
figure like voided night.

Transcendent innocence,
fearful desire and empty
conviction.

I understand her just from
a single hurried glance.

They're looking for a hotel room to make love.

He's too young to be truly callous.

He's nervous.

Goes into a lobby alone.

Lost already.

But he's white.

He'll have her.

She waits for the word at the end of the block.

I walk on.

Yeah, Miami.

Some black coke she-male hookers look into my eyes.

I smile no thanks
they're edgy and jump
in their pants
yell at the cars cruisin'
for some romance
and laughs
but there ain't none.

Just stop lights.

Just stop.

Just stop light.

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