You, fifteen and Heroine-chic
Wore miles of skin and bleached up hair,
Were Courtney Love in the twenty-first century,
And lost all self-respect
To blatant self-destruction.
(Self-disclosure?
What’s the difference, anyway?)

You, were paint-markers,
And scratched up bus windows,
And you tried on Downtown Miami
And tailored it to fit,
You were running to catch the J and never slowing down.
(Self-defense, self-defeat?)
Five million, derelict.

You, kept each and every day downtrodden
In an act of unjustified revenge.
You believe in this sort of
Coddled rebellion which allowed you to
Raise the bars
And slow it down,
And be a part of the Flotsam
And Jetsam
Lying around the courthouse
And Government Center.

All I can tell you is,
If this is life, five million times over,
And you just go on running,
Toward bus-delays and stale cocaine.
For the sake of the bullets,
Keep coming.

Given the New Times and religious tracts,
Given the metro-rail regulars,
Miami’s five-million and growing,
You, have spoken Spanglish all your life and
Learned Creole from the Dade County advertisements,
Known the side-effects and cigarettes,
But still don’t know the language.

We are defined by New Year’s Eve Gunshots and constant construction.
Honestly.

02/06/2006

Author's Note: Miami is my lady-love. Everyone seems to like this poem except for me.

Posted on 02/06/2006
Copyright © 2024 Eli Skipp