Without Las Vegas, America is just another motel.
Ice machine down the corridor spitting out cubes.
June bugs surfing sizzling light waves.
Over the blackjack tables, lions grip trapeze bars
in their teeth but no one looks up.
Accountants from Des Moines disappear
between the legs of sexual technicians.
Shrimp curl under orange rays like Quasimodo’s knuckles.
Every flight is filled with beauticians drawn in by the glow
of electricity seen from space.
Las Vegas is the Macchu Picchu of North America.
We are all hiding out from the Conquistadores
inside the slot machines. When the lights go out,
we will get down on our knees and eat the lawns.