In 1974 Broward County boosters, hoping to attract game fish, dump millions of nylon bound tires to create the Osborne Reef. Over time storms bust them loose to shred nearby natural reefs and wash up on North Carolina shores.
On ocean edge of ecodisaster emulsion blots of hyperglobality--petrolium tankers, containerships of lumber, orange marmalade, t-shirts--import/export from Port Everglades Foreign Trade Zone.
The air a carwash interior, droplets to downpour shampoo the yellow heat. Creamsicle skin strained muscles amble and pump along faint lightning steamed sand.
A man, squirting cartoon sweat, waddles with one leg twice-thick the other--salt rusted frontyard flamingo stem peglike limb.
Squeezed between cement skeletons of soon to be jacked up tropi-glamour condos
W Fort Lauderdale Hotel/Residences, with an interior that "incorporates elements of fenshui, color therapy and aromatherapy,"
and Trump International Hotel and Towers, "a one of a kind destination for the select few,"
are the broken plastered bones of 1950s era unsentimentalia.
My economy hotel room overlooks patio turned parking lot. Mattress squishes next to chipped veneer of nightstand on dull cracky linoleum floor. Half-inch of screw sticks out on bathtub faucet knob. Water drains slow through clogging sand.
Banyan tree swamp, former Fort Liquourdale, now Venice of South Florida, multimillion dollar yachts park along white tablecloth purple aquarium dining elegance. Open collared fifty somethings with blonded companions strut the sparkle studded sunglass boutiques of Las Olas Boulevard competing with the concierge and valet parking of chilled dry faux art deco Galleria Mall a mile north on Sunrise Blvd.
Not quite competing a half mile east at downscale curving Sunrise Lane, "The World Famous Parrot" hides amid neon xxx Playboy paraphernalia and tatoo parlor with hand on hips artist gruffing "Tattoo Bro?" to passer-by me.
By a smoke shop, a man stands on the sidewalk in white to grey Chuck Taylor low tops, ripped jean shorts, bare torso--body hair bleached by the sun, tufted over broiled apricot skin. He crosses the street to confront me sticking a two inch square gash on inside elbow in my face, "Hey Buddy, can you spare some change for some gauze and bandage?" I wave him off and pass by souvenir shops selling drunken sexhibitionist T-shirts--a Men's Room figure missing top circle with the caption "UNIVERSAL SIGN FOR NEEDS HEAD".
Back on A1A, a golftourist in SLK convertible, clubs sticking out the back, flips off a grey Dodge van with cardboard for one back window, "Go to fuck!"
Warm moist wind sways darkening palms.
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