"PROWL," a Parody on Miami's Transience and Eccentricities

I saw the best minds in my location inspired by
transience, revolving souls, leaving in mass exodus,
dragging themselves through disorganized terminals
looking for any-way-out,
away from angel-headed hipsters and the machinery of night,
where poverty, crime and face-eating zombies
snort burning lines of endless cocaiana and molly,
contemplating the untz untz untz of Club Space,
dancing under palm trees, juggling coconuts and starry-eyed contracts,
where men kill their girlfriends and post it on Facebook,
and Channel 10's "Pots and Pans" camera captures the celebration,
they leave for posterity; they leave for redemption;
they leave with their dreams and take them to a
lost city on the West Coast that entices fame and fortune,
or a brick city in the North that offers pace and culture,
or an old city in the Midwest where people are actually human,
they leave behind the Magic City, the silicone hills and sandy beaches,
they leave behind the people they never really felt that close too anyway,
they leave behind the haters and the pirate booty,
burning for the ancient heavenly connection to {{{BASS}}}
as it drops from dewy speakers from scrambled Hialeah through Overtown,
and those who stay behind, we watch this clumsy Baroque carousel,
spinning in circles, people and patterns of delicious madness,
coming-and-going, stretching like an Elastic Bond, into-the-cosmos,
only-to-sling-back into our dark gallows and outrageous fortunes,
only-to-sling-back into the Baker Act ward of Jackson,
always coming-and-going, looking for something, anything, anywhere but here,
unless here becomes home, and home becomes here, and here is the now,
until here is no longer, then you disappear behind masks and melancholy,
you, who smoked DMT in a tree made of tea under the moon and the sea,
you, who broke the red light camera and never slowed down,
you, who stole the monkey from the zoo,
listen to the holy cries of children not meant to be raised here,
move, find your banner to raise,
move, take your wife and leave your family behind,
move like the knots of the dreadlocked winds,
take Wynwood, Brickell and South Beach and leave,
in a big sprawling critical mass,
is it 305-till-you-die OR 305-till-you-move-away,
with all your intelligence and illumination,
ask yourself honestly,
if you're not here now, were you ever here at all?