Two months of writing in Vegas is crazy.
not because I did anything, but because of what I didn’t do,
To practice virtuosity one must with restraint
Completely in the flow as a writer
and I tell you Las Vegas is bedrock, functional.
I am like a tamed beast,
watching with locals the tourists experiencing the flair
These places are like forgotten, forgotten relics of a mechanical past,
streets here on the Strip are eight-lane freeways––
I am lost a pedestrian out in the wilderness,
timing my movements to shadows.
The earth will swallow me up on my way to the Rio.
The bum asks me for water and I give him my last half cup
of mostly ice and trickles of life-saving water.
Water.
It is so hot under the sun under the sycamores by the freeway,
that his soul might perish before he found the shore.
Vegas, always Vegas. This city Vast. It is America, but it isn’t.
It is the America that always welcomes.
Vegas is a turning point, a flash point, a mob.
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