I see America pointing at the UK—donned with wings and a purple robe.
I see Florida toss the middle finger eastbound; a priest looking back in prayer.
I see oil spills in the Gulf of Mexico, drifting down the coast of Tulum. Choking the wildlife, over-feeding sargassum; that Japanese wire-weed hitched in from Spain and Portugal, now well-fed by interests, foreign and domestic, planned or unplanned, all the same. Unmanned damage, spilling over—from the 80s, 90s, and 2000s onward—more of the same. Enough for the seaweed to thrive beyond measure, as it blots the turquoise Caribbean waters, replacing them with a strange type of mud that scratches while you wade on an overpriced vacation. All you got to show for it is a wristband like a hospital patient. All-inclusive.
You can pay the local indigenous to shovel the sargassum out every morning so you can take your DMT and shrooms and have a nice trip—I hear there’s nothing but clear skies from La Euphemia. Take in the view with fish tacos and …