June 3, 2008
Biscayne Boulevard blues
By Carlos Miller
She would have been sexy had her body not been ravaged by years of crack, heroin and multiple sex partners.
Jagged ribs jutted through a tattered t-shirt. Needle tracks dotted her bruised, bony arms.
And smeared lipstick created a permanent smile on a face that had been bruised one too many times.
She loomed over my table at Kingdom on Biscayne Boulevard, her body illuminated by the full moon rising over the eastern horizon.
“What are you writing?” she asked.
“A poem. At least trying to,” I responded.
“About what?”
“About this. About life. About Biscayne Boulevard. I don’t even know yet.”
I was on my third Heineken and had been hoping the alcohol would loosen the words that had been trapped in my subconscious mind. Words that would be flowing out of me like an unhinged beer tap had I been standing in the shower, driving down the street or laying in bed trying to get to sleep. Anywhere except in front of a damned computer screen or staring at a blank notebook page.
“Will you read it to me?”
Usually my answer would have been no. I don’t like sharing my unfinished work. And I get annoyed when people look over my shoulder as I write. It’s no different than when people walk into my kitchen and peer into my pan as I cook. Just sit the fuck down and enjoy the final product. You won’t be disappointed.
But on this night, all I had were two lines. Two good lines. Two solid lines. But two lines that were going nowhere.
I looked down at the Moleskine notebook I always carry in my back pocket and cleared my throat. Then I read those lines aloud.
“Under a full moon on Biscayne Boulevard”
“Drinking a beer at an outside bar.”
