Without your help, O, Miami cannot shout poetry out of a Ferrari come April 27. It takes several greenbacks to rent the damn car and procure one of them fancy megaphones. With only two days left, the Poetry Ferrari's Kickstarter page needs just $220 to reach its goal. (Psst: the deal with the micro-funding site is that the project doesn't get to keep any of the backed funds unless the total goal is met.)
Dave Landsberger, the man behind the megaphone, has penned an ode to Miami called "History Fair," especially for Cultist readers. If it stirs something in you - if the mention of chongas, Fox's Lounge, and iguanas sends tiny bolts of electric pride through you - then waddle over to the Kickstarter page and pledge a buck, or two, or 20. Read his poetic love letter to Miami, "History Fair":
By Dave Landsberger
After our shoeless sushi dinner, marked by the wait staff's argument over the tape deck,
we walk along the unwashed angled torso of art deco,
where men with tripods and orange vests act like they're doing something
at the hour of Marlboro Lights, hair gel, and tan-skinned platonic playthings,
until we find a park fertilized by hobos, with a perfectly constructed mini
diorama of the city of Miami.
It is beautiful, in a bonsai-tree sort of way,
and you tell me "The secret to loving Miami is to never say
that you are in love
with it, tell no one about the places you love
or they'll get hit by a bulldozer.
Everyone here is a budding real estate developer."
There is a little-big wind
blowing through the tiny streets and tin windows,
rattling its foundations, begging me to think about the places I love: Yambo on Flagler,
where, in June, they hock teddy bears and roses in front of the faces of kissing lovers;
Miami Jai-Alai in Hialeah,
where they chuck pelotas from their cestas on the cancha to win the
Saturday nights at Havana Vieja,
the serenade of a bald man from the souwesera who romances las rubias,
as the bartender, a former jai-alai player, slow dances with the thick-glassed
Mattheson Hammock: where babies sport diapers or bandanas
and swim in the oasis beside the nectarine-peeling abuelitas;
the October-y elation of an entire city shutting off its air conditioners,
the poseur fashionistas at Cocowalk dying to unveil their designer velour
the whorehouse turned bar, Fox's,
where every time Hotel California slides on the needle I trigger the secret skip switch on the free jukebox,
the chongas, the weirdoes sipping Bordeaux in hotel windows,
the shedding iguanas, the everlasting sunbathing dude in a speedo,
the street corner with the man selling shrimp in Ziploc bags, inventing a living,
O Kreyol, O Español, O Croatoa--and my dear, I tell you nothing.
Those men with the tripods and orange vests, are they mapping the changing of these seasons too?
I am so sorry my dear dinner date, for not being here with this moment, or with you,
so, so, so lo siento,
ay! I have missed the debut
of the night turning Miami upside down, shaking out our money, and shaking the yucca,
which drops a gecko onto mini-Miami, a nervous, undestructive, Godzilla.
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