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Tengo Feb 24
My perfect winter:
precious in how
the summer still
seems to
simmer within
the metro station’s
Even if the palm trees
still do shake
alongside the rhythm
of the wind,
my perfect winter
is hot—
pink like the day-ends
of summer solstice.
They are brown like
the sugar in
how you speak
to me,
Orange for
the lengths
of a coral sky right
before 6 o’clock.

And perhaps
I cannot know
a more
perfect season
until I’ve spent
time away
from my orange,
brown, and pink
But for now,
I will shiver
at 75 degrees,
I will chatter my
teeth at
this humidity—
so that I may
take your hands
in my own for
and so that I
never forget the
coarseness of your
skin during
the most perfect
time of year.
love poem
Mikey Kania Nov 2019
fly me from atlanta to

hurry up

don't make me
you ain't
we'll be watching you regardless of your hope
an art
stand in
Miami deco
by January
dry she'd
be very
warm with
canary yellow
sneakers ran
the heart
of the
sun yet
poolside in
orange jubilee
that orkÿ
would retire
at noon
a girl in the middle
a girl in my dreams
how she schemes
is her laughter that hallows such a boon
with these silver spoons
that raw action bakes her tan and bare behind
and bathe me there in South Beach again
that lies beneath her sand
in her bungalow under a tree
a folding of cheers furthermore a cookie nestled ****
till overcast desire now stay by the sun
remember the campfire girls?
clever Jun 2018
i've bitten my tongue so much
that it bleeds because it stops me from talking,
helps to keep the peace.
it stains my lips red as a reminder
that your words can start wars,
hurting those around you and
leaving destruction in their wake.
for what is the worth of the blood of one
when it has saved the lives of many?
You impacted me in a way I can't put into words. You saved me, but, in the end, no one could save you. I'm sorry this is how your story had to end. You'll live on.      r.i.p. xxxtentacion
Antino Art Feb 2018
South Florida
if you were a body part,
you’d be an armpit.

You’d be a bulged vein
on the side of a forehead
forever locked in a scowl
behind sunglasses.

You speak the language of horns
middle name, finger
blood type, combustible

You're a melting ***
that's boiled over the lid
sweating salt water at the brows
eyes red as the brake lights
in the maddening brightness,
you’re torrential daylight
heating nerves like greenhouse gasses
waiting for a reason to explode.

You’re a tropical motilov cocktail
no one can afford
2 parts anger, 1 part stupidity
melting in place, thirsty for attention
full of yourself in a souvenir glass with a toothpick umbrella
You're all image

You’re the curse words breaking out the mouths
of the angry line mob at Starbucks in the morning
You’re the indifferent silence
in the arena at the Heat games leaving early,
showing up late
due to the distance
from Brickell to Hialeah,
West Palm to Pompano
the gap between the entitled and the under-paid
a skyline of condos in a third world country
You’ve always been foreign to me.

You’re winterless, no chill
you attract only hurricanes
and tourists,
shoving anything that isn’t profitable
out of the way like the Irma storm debris
into the backyards of the Liberty City projects,
onto Mount Trash Can off the side of the Turnpike
hidden beneath Bermuda grass, lined with palm trees
you’re cold blooded
crawling with iguanas
blood-******* mosquitos
parking lot ducks and people not afraid to get run over
you get yours, Soflo
and you'll go as low
as the flat roofs of your duplexes
and the incomes that can barely pay the rent to get it
latitude as attitude
temper as temperature
if you were a body part
I swear you’re an *******

south of the brain, one hour
in all directions,
I’d find you.
You’d impose your way
onto my flight to the Philippines,
to Seattle, to Raleigh
You’d follow me like excess baggage,
like gravity,
bringing me back when asked where I'm from:

That area north of Miami, I’d say
(the suburbs, but whatever, we are hard in our own way)
I'd show you off on their map
as if some badge of grit,
certificate of aggression
I know how to break a sweat
walk briskly thru Walmart parking lots, drive evasive
ride storms in my sleep
I know you, I’d say,
“He’s a friend of mine.”
and I’d watch them light up
and recount
the postcards you've sent them
of the sunrise
welcoming brown immigrants
onto white sand beaches
You were foreign to us
yet raised us as your own
in the furnace of your summers
edges sharpened, iron on iron
the forger striking softness into swords
built for survival
I'm made of you

my South Floridian anger cools down
in your ocean breeze

if you were a body part,
you'd be a part of me
a socked foot in an And1 sandal
pressed to the gas pedal
as my drive takes me north
of your borders, far from home
You in the rear view mirror
like a sports car on the exit ramp
the color of the sun
Sophia I Sep 2017
In those apricot-tinged nirvana days,
cigar smoke filled the stuffy restaurant in which we ate.
At the table across from us sat a couple in their fourties,
Him, a toupee-wearing, finger-clicking car salesman,
and Her, the blonde in a tight dress,
glossy white mink and even glossier white stilettos.

She talked enthusiastically about the new eastern religions,
Groups that offered "clarity" and "spiritual guidance" to the dissatisfied Miami girls such as herself.

She said that she wanted a new way of life.
(Secretly, she wanted the young guru who'd promised it to her.)
Toupee protested:
"But honey, we ain't no slaves to the machine!"
The gold Casio watch on his wrist and the tacky pearls she sported said otherwise.
Ceyhun Mahi Jul 2017
Upon the waves there's being surfed,
And at cafes delights are served,
While the orange sun shares a ray,
At the end of the glowing day.

A summertime sadness and glee,
Is played alongside of the sea,
Who is rosy, pink as the sky,
As the beautiful waves pass by.
With some references to Lana Del Rey.
Emma S Jan 2017
Taking that first magical step out of the plane. The heat strikes you, the humidity is overwhelming.
Taking a seat in the first taxi. The prettiest of palm trees, magnificent skyscrapers trying to reach over the clouds.
Smoking the first cigarette, drinking the first drink.
New people, old people, bars, laughter, beaches, tattoos, sunshine.

Taking that first dreadful step out of the plane.
The cold punches you, the dry air takes your breath away.
Taking a seat in the old familiar car. Cold grey snow trying to stay on the highway.
Smoking only half a cigarette, it's better to be inside.
Old people, old news, grey skies, still the tattoos but lack of sunshine.

Snap out of it. Back to reality.
Bring me back soon.
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