Tres Leches.

A poem about what you crave but don’t need.

you got to be lonely
to write poetry

(at least any poetry
worth reading)

and i can’t think
of a lonelier place
than south beach

the people are all beautiful
—so beautiful 
they can’t appreciate 
their own beauty

the cars are all fast
—so fast
it’s as if they’re engineered
to run from something

and it’s socially acceptable
to wear sunglasses inside,
which means nobody
has to look anyone
in the eye

i always spend
a couple days 
in south beach
when i travel to miami
to remind myself 
of what i crave 
but don’t need

and because
there is this 
24-hour cuban diner
on the corner of 
7th and collins
called puerto sagua 

after dark,
i grab a seat 
at the bar
and order:

a modelo,
a half chicken,
coconut rice,
black beans,
plantains

i won’t eat
throughout the day
because i like
the way i write
when i am hungry

i write as if i am hunting
i write as if i am out for blood

but this meal
—this meal would be
my last meal

i shake the chicken
from the bone,
fork the beans
onto the coconut rice,
halve the plantains
and eat—

i wash it down 
with the beer
and order more beer
once the beer 
has disappeared

at the end, 
i grab a tres leches 
to go—the one 
topped with caramel

i climb up to my room,
crack a window,
light a cigarette, 
spend some time 
with a book 

these days it’s 
joan didion and 
eve babitz

joan was good
but eve was god

she fucked everyone:
jim morrison,
harrison ford,
paul butterfield, 
stephen stills,
ed ruscha

this was back
when americans
were like the french 
about sex

this was back 
when they were free 

eve later became 
a collage artist, 
doing album cover work 
for folks like:
the byrds, 
the eagles
buffalo springfield

when she made it as an artist,
she hung up a picture 
outside her home that read:

i used to be a piece of ass,
now i’m an artist

one day eve 
got into writing
and forever 
changed the game

nothing was the same
after she picked up 
the pen

god bless eve

after a couple days
in south beach,
i move
to this neighborhood
just outside of
wynwood
because i feel 
more at home
there

it’s half tragedy, 
half recovering tragedy

it’s wonderful

there are cats everywhere
in every shade and color

i will run 
the neighborhood 
late at night 
once the heat has subsided 
and the cats never know 
what to think of me

if the money 
keeps coming in
and i don’t 
do anything stupid
like i did the last time
i was flush

—playing the markets
like i was the wolf
of wall street
and nearly losing my house

i might get another place 
in that neighborhood 

that or buy a
lamborghini countach
and find a woman
that looks just like eve.