Tag Archives: Miami poems

a thousand years

. Uncategorized . , , , . 4 Comments

I think that
I will be here for the next
one thousand years

…here in the thick of it
here in the corporate tank
with that guy from
the San Francisco office
sending me threatening email
bugging the corporate hell
out of me saying that
if I don’t fix this or that
within the next 24 hours

Then
The corporate shit will hit
the fan by tomorrow
morning at 9 AM Eastern
Daylight Time
causing the four horsemen
of the Corporate Apocalypse
to ride into town

RIGHT

into South Miami
right up the tailpipe
of my brand new laptop
computer,
threatening the very existence
of my unfurnished condo
and nine year old car

I think that
I will be here for the next
one thousand years
staring up at the stars over
Biscayne Bay
going to Publix on
Sunday afternoon to
pick up dog food for Precious
and kitty litter
for Millie
and stopping to fill up
the Subaru
at the Chevron

on Alton Road.

I can’t imagine it being

any other way.

It is all so important

all of it

and it will

be this way

for at least a thousand years

On Collins Avenue, last week

. Uncategorized . , , , , , , . Leave a comment

on Thursday afternoons
Emily drinks vodka gimlets
with a guy
at the Fountainebleu bar

…he’s a b-grade actor
who is 3 times her age
…he’s a ‘has-been’
…a forgotten relic…
with silver hair

…a guy
who has fifty grand
left in the bank,
a guy who has
a cancelled
AmEx Card
in his wallet
and has recently had
his powder blue
Bentley repo’d

…a guy

who has a
house in The Gables
that’s in foreclosure
and a wife in Palm Springs
who is on the move…
and a daughter in Betty Ford
recovering…

…a guy
Emily has ONLY seen
in reruns on cable tv
late at night

…that guy…

but Emily delights

in the fact
that a tourist
from Montreal
walks up
as they finish their

gimlets

and asks b-grade

to sign his cocktail napkin
and then
Montreal tourist asks
b-grade actor
if he’d ever met Pablo Escobar
and asks if he knew
Ronald Reagan
back in the day

and

if he’d ever met
Don Johnson
on the set

old actors die hard
this one smiles politely
drains his gimlet
and signs the napkin.

 

White curtains

. Poetry . , , , . 4 Comments

I remember white curtains —

they hang without motion

in the open window

of The Hotel Caribe

as the heat roils up from the concrete

3 floors below

and I think of you —

naked and motionless

and the freedom

that comes from a day

of complete abandon, spent

…you…

AWOL from the MIA gift shop

…and me…

a half dozen hours

before my bar shift begins

at the Fontainebleau

it’s late summer

in Little Haiti

and the housekeeper

is shouting at us

in English (somewhat)

as she bangs on our door

with a mop handle

like she always does

and she says that it’s 1 o’clock

in the AFTERNOON

and we have to leave this place

RIGHT NOW

or she will call lapolis

and I remember how you

laugh at  her

like always

and you say –

30 minutes more

granmoun fanm

and we hear the mop wagon

amid curses

rattle off to the elevator

and we reengage

and  reassess

and point

your lavender painted toes

skyward

and in the end

I press my face

into the pillows that are slightly

scented with a detergent

that remind me

vaguely

of the Rodeway Inn

on the east side of Denver.