LOOKING FOR VEGAS
I went to Las Vegas
looking for a fear and loathing
Satori transcendence.
When I got there
what I found was Dread, Denial and Apathy:
New American Dream Team
fueled by antidepressants
and the warped perception
that the ultimate act is shopping
and the ultimate act of shopping
is Paying for your own Time.
I found elephant talk
loud monstrous architectural spending prisons,
Ayn Rand's unforeseen eventuality of capitalism,
consumer battleground
where I float in a trance of soporific somnambulism
trying to get from here to there
without getting caught in
green felt football field
repeating retail decimal quicksand
I went to Vegas looking for America
some semblance of a culture I have never really connected with
Here's a list of some of the things I just don't get:
donuts, P.T. Cruisers, Elvis Presley, the Beach Boys, and Republicans.
What I found was Wayne Newton croaking out Old Tunes
in some pathetic replay of the Rat Pack days
when Vegas had real lustre
when Mobster money that founded it turned legit
and Starlets dripping ice paraded around
and the rush of the Fifties was found in a Gimlet
and Caesar's Palace was gold-tipped
and glamour hadn't met Kurt Cobain yet,
hell, it was just primping Ronald Reagan back then
I went to Vegas looking for One from the Heart,
Coppola's elegy to worn out love filmed entirely on Zoetrope's lot,
yet somehow making Vegas more real to me
than Dean Martin or exploding old casinos
I went looking for Languor and Lust in all its liquid forms
I went looking for Lifesize Martini Glasses with GIRLS in 'em
I went looking for young Raul Julia
sweeping dancing romancing Terri Garr off her -
What I found were waitresses walking with stepped-on toes,
dreams hidden on soles of wanted to be dancer's feet
bringing me watered down drinks
that just won�t get me drunk enough cause
I think I really went to Vegas looking for you
though driving away
somewhere in the desert you left me a message
your voice sounds lonely
and suddenly I regret this
dreamless caravan I am a part of
as we pass Baker and a huge worthless thermometer
as Alien Jerky taunts me roadside
as I have never seen more Joshua Trees
and Wonder why nobody stops here
only trains onward
to the Heaven�s Gate of the sleepless
to a soundtrack as heard on TV
I didn't find you in Vegas,
my young Raul Julia,
how could I fail to see that parallel parody of my heart's needs
because in every frame of Vegas I see you.
I want to see You
still thinking your affection might mean something lasting
though odds on that are not for me to lay down
I haven't lain down for you and your needs
but mine are burning me a path to you so brightly
it's easy to run the other direction
The thing about Vegas was
I just couldn't get fucked up enough to forget who I am.
To forget that I have a life
and I keep wondering what all these people did with theirs
because there is nothing so compelling here
New York New York is nothing compared with even
getting off the one train in Sheridan Square
going over to 55 Bar to hear hot licks from Leni Stern or Wayne Krantz
for a couple a bucks and a couple a beers
and in New York that's just what you do on a Monday night
a prelude to the pleasures of being alive
with your head feet and your heart in one line
instead of living enslaved
under that remotely opposed thumb
The thing about Vegas is
you just can't get drunk enough to escape your own life's clauses.
You put your money down,
Place your bets
but no matter how much they pay out
they are always taking in.
Because this is Vegas, Baby.
And in Vegas, baby,
the House always wins.
BAR MARMONT
Sweet sexy lowdown dancing
As the music went slow
where else could we go,
'cept to touching each other
Hands to hands hands to shoulders hands to waist
hands in crowded bar, drunken prying eyes
everywhere upon us
but There
I feel so completely rapt in you and me
like there is nothing but warm air gold light
dripping honey holding us to each
I slide arms written with forbidden around your neck
feels like abandon
so back down your shoulders
but I've felt how close to you heart I will be
So I slide them up again
clasp together behind &
your skin silks insides of my wrists
And we are a closed circuit
Our bodies colluding on the 2 and the 4
We are not syncopated; we are not contrapuntal
We are swimming through amber solidifying this moment
My lips so close to yours I feel hear your breath amidst all this noise
My eyes close your forehead tilts finds mine
And 6 eyes connect there and and
Everything is satisfied
yet still looking for more
My lips wondering if they might accidentally brush yours
wondering do you have a girl
wondering if forever is too long to stay here getting to know
no words just feel no words just beats
no words heart beats drum beats beat
just beats just melodious atmosphere
just bourbon aura of full but empty bar
full but empty world we no longer inhabit because
eyes closed we are a sound/touch system
Aural pleasure
and we move so well together so well
together we just glide notes just slide along my spine
my hands ride caramel caresses
We are not crescendo; we are not thumping
We are glossing glazing icing skating
We are Fluid
Single Malt Scotch
down the esophagus & the way it hits
the stomach on a dark note
so conscious of the trip
the destination hits a surprise
I open my eyes to see are you looking at me
but maybe I missed that chance glance so I
close them again wondering if I am making Noise
if the satin sheets I am resting in emerge as sound in your register
or is it all just breath and is it yours or is it mine
and will our lips find each other's
and can we stay here forever
and are we just drunk on exhaustion and alcohol
or might this cove this inlet be on the map tomorrow
and will our lips touch by accident because on purpose would be wrong
too soon all these gossipy people in the room
And cause I don't know you the way I wanna know you yet
But by accident
do they touch can they touch will they touch
by accident on purpose touch
Before the song touch ends touch
The song ends.
We are in a crowd. It's loud. Loud crowd
We are drowned out in eyes hands bodies mouths
disconnecting drinks brandished like
rusty swords of romance
The loud crowd drowns out the sounds
of our quiet breath.
UNTITLED
Wanna take all the change fallen out of pockets
of boys
visiting my couch or frequenting my mattress
collect it and buy a house
that won't be a home,
but will be some place to put my chair
that's just a chair.
You're gone four months
and I'm still finding your hair everywhere
in all its iterations
from orange to bleached to long and hippie-like
and isn't it all about residue?
The kind that you face or the kind you run from without grace
residual traces of life's slaps in the face
turning into grudges about race and races
who wins and who doesn't
like territorial pissing contests
over 2X4 pieces of raised plywood
bringing peaceful poets to places
reserved for hawkish warlords -
if you want to spit activism,
then stop acting and start taking action;
stop preachin' and start practicing,
cuz last time I checked, you had your karma on pause
and the week before that,
you came in wearing it backwards.
See words follow deeds, thought predates speech
and humanity flows secretly
even in your most despised enemy,
so get with the program
of digging out hypocrisy like weeds
and planting purposeful precious seeds of futures
non-violent, loving, and ecstatic.
In your mind you got me keeping up with the Jones',
but in reality I'm just trying to keep up with the dishes in the sink
and the bill collectors on the phone.
Don't know that I'll ever feel grown
and that house may never be a home -
more like a shell on my back
as I travel across lands
with an abundance of lack,
living my life on the pole
stripped to the minimum,
cause who needs accoutrements
when you focus on what's within?
I've taken a vow of poverty and one of chastity;
don't take anything into my body
I haven't already taken into my soul
that's why most times you see me I'll be solo,
wondering will I ever get back to my hobbit hole
and my old car it's been repo-ed
so all's I got left are these bare feet
but that's ok with me see,
cause fighting evil,
it's done very very slowly.
So I gave up rolling with the homies -
drive too fast might put the wrong shit on blast.
Instead I just practice my warrior poses,
make sure the life I'm livin is the one I've chosen,
finding my balance, strengthening my inner core,
and after three Om's my battle chant is,
-Let's go kill some Orks!-
But first, I turn that elven blade on myself,
cause the heart of darkness beats in every chest,
and Massah Kurtz, he done been dead,
but the real horror is it's all just a test
a simple question of
-What's your Manifesto, Baby?-
Can you rip the dark right out of you
and let the fucking sunshine in?
Can you wrestle with an angel without letting the devil win?
Can you fill the abyss with joy and turn it up to eleven?
Shit - I live in the belly of the beast - what's your fuckin address?
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