The Miami Poems

Make no mistake, Lucy was not to be fucked with. It made no difference that she was barely five feet tall, skinny as a pipe cleaner, a small parrot constantly perched on her shoulder, sweet faced young Latina behind the counter of the store where I used to pick up my nightly pack of cigarettes. God help you if you got on the bad side of this woman. You would be on the bitch slap end of a front snap kick to the the ball sack and an elbow strike to the thorax. While you lay on the ground sputtering, gurgling and wondering what the fuck just happened, Lucy would be strapping on her golf cleats, preparing to climb up your ass to do a Mexican hat dance all around the inside of your rectum. Thus it was too bad for the unaware big stupid oaf wearing a Megadeth T shirt and executioners hood, carrying a machete who tried to rob the store during Lucy's shift. 'I got in that motherfucker's face and told him to get the fuck out of my store before I fucked his fat ass up!' Apparently, the boy wised up and did just that. 

That was classic Lucy and God, I loved her. She was one of my favorite characters from that distant time and place. One of an array of personalities colorful and divergent as a rainbow in the middle of a typhoon at midnight while a whole city burns to the fucking ground. There is no place on earth like the perverse stage where people parade around in full lunatic regalia like Miami, Florida. 

For better and worse, I spent 28 years living in a place that has been described by journalist, novelist and screen writer Carl Hiaasen as a '24 hour freak show' and once was voted 'Rudest City in America'. I was raised, went to school, came of age, got married and had our first child in that hallucinogenic fever dream of a city. I was there for the Haitian boat lifts, the McDuffie riots, the cocaine cowboys, the plight and futile anger of Cuban refugees, any amount of crackpot politicians, serial killers, gay bashing street punks and ethnic gang wars, the murder of Gianni Versace and Hurricane Andrew, oh sweet suffering Jesus Christ almighty, Hurricane fucking Andrew. 

There are some dark corners beneath that tropical paradise festooned with beautifully vapid swimsuit models that house and nurture horribly violent crime and unspeakable evil perpetrated by sadly twisted sacks of humanity who leave a trail of atrocity and abomination in their wake.

All of this however makes for wonderful fuel and fodder for a writer.

In perusing all my years of journals full of poetry, I have found numerous pieces that could be grouped into a category called 'The Miami Poems'. The piece that follows is one of them. It is a composite poem based on the following two people, the first of which is someone who worked at the same store as my brass balled friend and sometimes object of lust Lucy.  

1. I never did catch his name but I knew him as the fellow with a near obsession with the band Joy Division and haunted by the suicide of their lead singer Ian Curtis. He would be playing a cassette of the (to me, annoying piece of monotone whiny 80s euro-pop crapola) song 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' incessantly from his boom box behind the counter. He would passionately talk to me about the band and how forlorn he was at the loss of their singer. He said, with jagged electric static timbre in his voice 'man, their music talks about my life, man'. He was always happy to see me, I suppose because I would listen to him and stay with his protracted conversations even though it got uncomfortable as hell sometimes.  

One night, while making my usual stop to offer alms at the altar of the great God nicotine, I found the store surrounded by yellow police tape and many squad cars with flashing blue beacons forming a barricade in the parking lot surrounding many dozens of uniformed officers scurrying about. 

The next night, all was quiet. I went in and asked the owner what had happened on the previous evening. It seems my nameless friend had earlier in the day before, stabbed his grandmother and four year old brother to death with a screwdriver and fled to the store to hide in the back room. 

A post script to this story; I've long since quit smoking.

2. He was a burglar alarm installer, part time gun merchant, bottle of scotch a day drinker, night club hypnotist, survivalist who liked to be called 'Big Bad John' and he was for a short time, my boss. In his living room sat five loaded AK-47s by the front door, many pistols on his coffee table, stacks of cases containing canned food, water and toilet paper along the walls, behind the sofa, on the book shelves and around the TV. He often said 'When the state of anarchy breaks out, I want to be prepared'. He offered us other pearls of wisdom such as, 'Screw the government every chance you get' and 'I don't need to give you a retirement account. You need to invest part of your paycheck in lottery tickets'. I came to discover he was being watched by the feds as well as the local po-po. At which point, joblessness looked pretty damn sweet.

I have to hand it to these two guys. Because If anything can be learned from Jim Carrey's performance in 'Ace Ventura, Pet Detective' (coincidentally, filmed in Miami) if you're going to go bat shit crazy, don't be half assed about it. 

This poem is called '....all I’m saying....'

The depth of this hill

is as steep as its climb

In the silence of sex

lies the stillness of time

While lusting for death

seductions of crime

danced on the brain

and chewed at the liver

clouding the eyes

and made the corpse quiver

Ink spots that fell

on the carpet remain

her precious boy’s blood

would rush down the drain

‘Policemen are fools

who ransack and rape’ 

he said at confession

that was recorded on tape

The news would proclaim

‘This boy had gone mad

a quick lustful fix

killed the chances he had’

White trash from Florida

is invading our city

it’s an abortion our taxes

must pay for this pity

I’ll lock up my daughter

I’ll chain up my wife

I’ll shoot the son of a bitch

who tries to fuck up my life

In my fort of canned goods

toilet paper and ammo

we’ll be safe as the God

that sits up on high

while the rest of you cannibals

eat shit and die

The streets are not safe

for folk like me 

and you don’t watch your step

I’ll go hide in a tree

and hose your ass off

with an Uzi

if you step in my yard

because I watch the news

and it scares me

to know there are people out there

like that and like you

who threaten my world

my church and my life

and if you think I’m paranoid

thank my fourth wife

She’s under the floor boards

in plastic and mud

if you pigs want more evidence

go wade through the crud

The last time I killed her

was the last time I saw her

and that’s all I’m saying

until I speak to my lawyer.

Stay safe kids, all my love,

Max