I've tried to tell you, through moonlit murals
and midnight voicemails
over and over,
this desert is my only jurisdiction.
Picture me, stumbling through
the golden casino gates,
shoes hitting the floor like bolts of lightning
in a thunderstorm.
So angelic,
not messy or muddled, though I know
that's what they say, laughing and blabbering
over their million dollar shrimp cocktails.
How can I explain it better?
Aimless twilights of immortality, necking pornographic
in the broken elevator,
cotton candy
spun out,
tripping into king beds of prickly pears,
animalistic, sedated aphrodisiac
sweating from my pores,
lust oxidizing
into glowing orbs
rubbing me down.
I wonder, can the security cameras capture the light
combusting behind my glossy eyes?
The cryogenic anesthesia
shielding my body
from the perversions in my mind.
A million maladies
killing me quickly.
But you still can't comprehend
why I dig my nails
into gold-rimmed windows,
unearthing sand dollars
under flickering fluorescent lights.
Why I deal out my shabby deck of cards
with pallid fingers, tremorous
under brown cigar smoke clouds,
shuffling my decency, into sybaritic propositions of sex.
My poker face, despicable.
The joker, unbecomingly
folded between the prestigious kings and queens
weaving in and out of prosper, masquerading
like I've multiplied fifteen dollars.
Can't you see?
These bonfires lit behind my eyes, oil spilled and slicked with kerosene,
nosebleed trickling down
to my teflon lips,
painting pictographs on the walls of my mouth
if only for a sample of heaven.
For I've been running along vomit-stained carpets
down flamingo pink hallways, portraits pleading on the walls
cursing my name, echoing to the duct taped mosaics
on the piss yellow ceiling,
doubling, tripling, until they surround me
flashing like paparazzi.
I've sanctified myself, on the curb by 7-Eleven
grinding my molars
into oblivion,
asphalt crumbling the unpaved streets.
But still, I have one final wish,
just once more, once more,
last one, I promise!
I'm coming home soon
wading through the swamp
with a million army green dollars
in the flesh,
blowing to the canyons
like American dandelions,
parting ways
in the scorching wind of Mojave,
hotter than magma,
louder than Las Vegas.
