Miami Vice Versa

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"What should I write?"

"What should I write?"

 

"Write a book."

 

"It´s too cold — I can´t sit at the Mac!"

 

"Use your Atom PC!"

 

"You´re right. I start."

 

It all starts like this. With a thought, or a brainwork in Florida, where I spend an

 

other´s pension in 20 years from now in the future.

 

Any problems with this? I can not see any, neither the human being change, nor the

 

time travel are a problem, because I control that.

 

And I do it rather well.

 

Ok, not perfect, but rather ok.

 

But that´s not the problem. The problem is in Florida. In Miami. Miami Vice Versa.

 

And what does that mean?

 

"What?"

 

"Miami Vice Versa."

 

"Ok"

 

It means that there is a conspiration of a group of cops against a group of former

 

gangsters who were never guilty and are threatended of death, though.

 

"Tell me more."

 

The gangsters are four of them, Anoa, Bene, Cidi and Doozu versus five cops: I just

 

call them by numbers, Number 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5.

 

Ok.

 

So Anoa, Bene, Cidi and Doozu were never found guilty in Florida during their lives

 

up to their middle old ages though everyone always said that the group sticks of

 

danger, does not go to work, exploits the system and lives ignorant to standard 

 

citizens.

 

The cops instead were highly admired as heroes in their neighborhoods, had a clear

 

life on paper and drove in Ferraris of red and black, wearing tie suits and leather

 

Samba slippers.

 

So while the Flamingoes stood there in groups, the two parties of cops and gangsters

 

clashed on January 40, 2038.

 

A Ferrari got smashed, ties torn, suits wasted, wasted wasted wasted time and all

 

and all and all and all

 

A clash. I am back in my thoughts.

 

The cops and the gangsters.

 

Who is guilty?

 

Is it you or me or them or this or that or those or these?

 

Who knows, maybe the Flamingoes if they were not goose or geese.

 

So there enters a spoiled comic figure in a black comic wearing his leather jacket

 

for 20 bucks years old, but very attractive and he decides to put every one of the

 

both groups aside and letz them play chess against each other — the police in white

 

(now ragged) suits in white and the gangsters in leather jackets, too in black

 

color on my chess square of 1,40 times 1,60 meters when they brought it from

 

Maputo to Miami but that is no problem in February 2038.

 

So they play their chess and all are 

 

rehabilitated from the terror to them and they know

 

they were wrong and feel sorry, thanks to the pädagogic chess square and everyone

 

but really everyone does now live in harmony and peace and the Flamingos salute

 

and love it and the citizens love it and I live it and the comic figure very 

 

attracive is on a piece of cartonage situated liveless but present and if it 

 

ever talks again, she would say that she loves me and she doesn´t belong to the

 

geese.

 

(Just to rhyme on peace.)

 

Maybe.

 

Maybe garage door. Garage door in an infinite row. To Io and beyond.

 

NOT Cubic row!

 

Cubic row, the poem that I lost, was long before.

 

And ice, on the floor. The floor to garage door.

 

At the Florida shore.

 
-hf

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