west-ish
While racing vultures against the wind of the wild, wild west
I collect stars from the Arizona sky
and chiseled stones beneath worn-out tires
and feet
like Milagros nailed to an iconic double boarded symbol
I lost faith in long ago.
On the road we pee in damp restrooms
behind soda machines
at pit-stop travel-lodge houses
where fast food employees serve free booze to those praising slot machine deities.
Out here,
casinos are like red-neck chapels,
they’re the ultra-commercial Mecca for those seeking comfort
in “all you can eat” multi-nation buffets
where calloused country hands sell their young
just to catch a glimpse at the rare
but bewitching
divinity:
Wicked Woman + Wicked Woman + Wicked Woman
equals triple spin score and the chance at 3 mil.
but beware the ides of the Vegas strip,
each laminated, breast exposing business card bringing big bucks
to the ever-growing careers of porn-star wannabe prostitutes.
A man on the corner snaps his fingers,
says “hey, wanna have some fun girlies?”
And why should i say no?
this is Vegas after all.
J.Morrill
