Admittedly, this one is a tad* dark (written several years ago, revised today) but I imagine some of you who’ve have spent too much time thinking in Vegas like I have may understand the concept….
Vegas Tattoo Blues
Brown carpet is a
worn threadbare path
rough against my arches.
False air blows brown curtains
cooly, such a drag.
My hands so slim and tender
are steady.
Despite the night,
that mascara running, fishnet talking,
suited pusher, blinking neon,
jackpot empty promise of a night.
It stings.
Pills help, booze too
but nothing compares to this.
My eyes bead with water
like the rows of cars on
Las Vegas Boulevard, every
solitary mark belongs.
I gaze out the window.
Casinos blink approval
and bloat their bellies full
of quarters.
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