Last week for my job I went to Miami. It was 75 and muggy. In the airport washroom, I peeled off my long johns and crowed.
Spending long days with doctoral students mapping dissertations and demystifying databases, I didn’t see much of the city beyond a few blocks downtown. This, perhaps, corrupts my impressions. Surely not everyone salsas all the time! Not every car costs a college education! Not all white boys aged nine to fourteen are surgically attached to skateboards! And not all clothing stores pimp gansta-glamor-trash pastiche, bedazzling on everything, from lingerie to jeans.
But it’s true, yes. Even men’s pants have sequins on the ass. The valets salsa dance in hotel driveways. Bawdy yachts with bare flesh blast, “I’m in Miami, bitch!” in case you didn’t know, and you are, too.
RICH PEOPLE COMING THROUGH.
Palms? They’re pretty neat.
Empty space is empty.
Your roots are showing.
Vultures over Miami.
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