Miami Beach Sunstrokes

(excerpts)

Jacqueline Goldberg (Maracaibo, 1966)










the balcony is a chunk of Collins Avenue

a view
reduced to extremes
no one notices
at lunch

we watch its swim suit blend
we've got towels
tuna sandwiches
Diet Coke

we pause at the dry shot
of an airplane over the bay










Mr. Jones guards exits and entrances

he couldn't have another name
—as a true character
out of English classes—

Mr. Jones is a guachman
ripit egein

Mr. Jones
and his doorman shifts
listens bearer of old corpses
maker of strokes and barters
artificial respirator

Mr. Jones-glassdoor

single entrance









Isaac Baschevitz Singer
spent winters
in the Surfside Tower

we'd see him at his window
two floors down
in checkered shorts and a T-shirt

a nurse
pushed his walker
on certain stretches of the beach

at the time, I couldn't have guessed
the Nobel Laureate chewed gum
and no longer wrote











the kids/of/fourthirty
woke at dawn on the first day of August
to go north on a DC10

over there was minute triumphs on the sand
matchstick heads
given away to the trash

upon return
they wore new clothes
blue chocolates

a certain misery
bronzed with delay










the kids/of/fourthirty
came back in September with bubbles in their mouths

a magic powder
it convened the airs of its other humanity

they spoke of sailboats in bed
happy explosions between their molars

they believed they held the secret of travel

and they did










on vacation there is no house

borrowed apartments
smell of stickers

even after three weeks
when the airport taxi is about to arrive
they demand a certain order
they aspire to contain the substance of mistakes

no one cares about the mended carpet
the trash left behind

the apartment was a beach matter
quick lunches camping stove

if even a niche
minimal catastrophe
convenience of foreign shelter










heating up pizza by microwave at midnight
is a bad omen

boiling water in a bronze baby bottle
weighs the bitter moments

spying on the fat neighbor between shades
warms the ghosts

writing just because
for pure lies
churns the guts
draws smoke
kills the good plagues










Jacqueline Goldberg, Insolaciones en Miami Beach (Caracas: Fundarte, 1995).