Spanish-style dwellings flanking the tile flooring, horseshoes echoing perfectly under the attic as steroids-infused steads walk so gracefully while bleeding from the nose – it’s my lucky day at the track. They, inside sources connected to powerful cartel jefes, claimed number 7 and 3 are juiced to the gills and I’m putting down a good ten grand on each because to hell with my probation officer, ex-wife and prison councilor they were all wrong. The cold corona seems to facilitate the sweat across the flower-patterned shirt but it’s my khaki shorts that took the most beating. Apparently, one of the golfer’s escorts had the evil eye. That or the devil got poor number 7 he tripped face-first at the initial turn, Jesus… The number 3 horse, on the other hand, came in second – looks like I’m drinking myself to sleep in the afternoon again.
As I placed my sunglasses on the bar across from me, I couldn’t help but notice the colors bleed back to my eyes’ life again. The sunlight across the Versace home, the ice-bound distilled Scotch waving between my fingers, the golden arcs of dusk illuminating the saxophone as my brother played on that instrument until his face turned purple. I know I’ve been saying this for the last ten-years, but that ten-grand was worthwhile if I get a view like this right across my lawn. At least that’s the lie that I believe; even I will admit to that beyond my cynical self. I even recorded my own phone calls with the booker and my cigarette boat dealer; I got tired of all the robbery and wrong in my world, that’s why I needed gambling and high-powered engines to get away from all of it… I’m living a deceptive life. But I needed the truth instead of sham reflections – and every time I look at this moonlit sky canvas, it is full of the former. The latter is rather rich with human imagination filling a void in hopeless manners. Something that we call: “heaven” or “4-million-dollar mansions on Fisher island, Miami Dade.”