Miami melts in its own heat.
It is, as Robert Frost writes,
"Riding on its own melting."
The grubby politicians
no one votes for
package the
melted, gelatinous
reality-space in
salami tubes.
(America, this is where your
“mystery meat” originates.)
And like Frost’s poetry,
this palm tree city
is a modern achievement,
gross in the undertaking.
It is a lead coffin, kept afloat
on the Atlantic Coast by
feat of the imagination alone.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
Miami melts in its own heat.
It is, as Robert Frost writes,
"Riding on its own melting."
The grubby politicians
no one votes for
package the
melted, gelatinous
reality-space in
salami tubes.
(America, this is where your
“mystery meat” originates.)
And like Frost’s poetry,
this palm tree city
is a modern achievement,
gross in the undertaking.
It is a lead coffin, kept afloat
on the Atlantic Coast by
feat of the imagination alone.
The Frost allusion is to the author's essay, "The Figure a Poem Makes." Excised stanza:
This postcard ghetto is two-dimensional and
may be mailed anywhere.
It has no reality, for
only tourists seem to live here.
Request permission to use this poem