Dear Florida (after Allen Ginsberg)
       

Florida, you have the most stowed guns of any state.
You are besting even Texas — Texas, Florida.
Florida, heaven and hell are supposed to be separate locations.
Florida, stop praying, I'm trying to talk to you.
Your purple skies improvise brilliantly over the Hobby Lobby.
I don't think you even try to distinguish between sex and death.
Florida, you are poor white.
Florida, you are Cuban, Jewish, ancient, spring break.
Florida, god was drinking mezcal when he designed your birds.
If I'm being honest, I prefer gentle Hawaii to you.
I imagine Anna and Elsa after a long day driving home separately, chain-smoking,
          staring out the window.
Florida, it's nuts that we let you decide our elections.
Florida, Jacksonville is your trashiest city.
Florida, you must believe in the beauty of Miami.
You are the perfect location for Walt Disney's crypt!
Your Magic Castle is the stepchild of the conquistador's rancid dream.
I stand below your 100-foot ad for farm fresh biscuits, feeling holy and
          ashamed.
Florida, you call Hooters a family restaurant.
Your glamour and violence, Florida, your red and blue, your two coasts!
Florida, you are pin cushioned with metal crosses!
Florida, your gas stations have been stabbed to death with flags!
Florida, all your wintry Christmas décor is sarcastic, it makes me happy even
          though I'm Jewish.
Florida, "Bikinis Sportsbar" is what it sounds like, the waitresses wear bikinis, I watched an
          undercover boss show once, where the boss pretended to be an employee, and
          offered the women there breast implants, but not health insurance — it was bad, Florida,
          even by your standards.
Florida, how can I relax in your prehistoric mood?
Florida, Emma Gonzalez's shaved head is an egg of beauty.
Your bird-lined bridges are lovely, I can't tell you enough.
But Trump and Bush, really Florida?
Florida, I know you wanted Al Gore.
Florida, I had no faith you'd go for Hillary.
Your masculinity is a problem Florida, we need to talk about it.
Florida, I'm not sure all your Cubans and ancient New Yorkers can save you.
How long will you kiss Ponce de León's golden ass?
When will you be worthy of your millions of armadillos?
Florida, is your heart a concealed carry?
Florida, they tell me you'll be underwater soon: imagine a clear sea instead of you,
          the Disney spires shooting up.

Tweet
Copyright © 2021 Adam Scheffler All rights reserved
from Asheville Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission