Here, churches have drive-thru's,
prostitutes: business cards with the smell of licorice,
call me! in crimson & a lipstick kiss.
Here, day does not depart,
but dies ostentatiously
clutching it's chest in a casino buffet line,
in jeweled cape pretending to be Elvis,
in a alley behind a strip club
beaten to death in a dumpster.
Here, the moon is a coin
thumbed into the evening slot machine.
When the lever is pulled
it is the gesturing arm of a giant Indian,
the tomahawk celebration of a man,
tux (un)done, in sour sweat-stained frills
and everything coming up desert stars
after champagne uh-huhs.
Here, if the silver he cups in both hands
were splashed on his face
the words he speaks
would be neon.
Phosphorescent holy verse,
a wicked scripture hung next to
on a billboard,
the Shiva of Las Vegas
genuflection in fresh eyes of