a poem for vegas by Paula Hayes

you don't have to live inside

a desert town to feel the wind blow

sand and dust from underneath your feet

the red hot sun like candy cinnamon hots 

can burn a line in the cold of your heart

just as easily as the dollar blackjack table

or the women at the Oyo 

your hands tremble

as you put it down

i can feel the quivering in your veins

of your addiction 

reach me many miles away

while a dealer in a deadpan voice 

sneers, "house wins"

the house always win 

i don't have to know, to know

you don't have to say it, to say it 

you need a chemical lover 

it's tied up in your absence 

like some reckless hellhound 

waiting outside the doors of the burlesque 

funny, you can't shake it

but it blurs the lines between love and

whatever else there is

the way a fantasy show 

seeps inside making you think 

you can have what you can't 

i keep driving

toward some west coast utopia

we are all rock stars here

beneath the sway of the palm trees

against the clip of the mountains

as scenes from music videos light up the big screen

that hangs over the pool 

i can see the dancing images from my hotel room

as i stand there with the curtains wide open 

what kind of town is this that jacks you like a rabbit

but won't steal your name 

that is why they call it Paradise, i suppose 

it has everything you think you want

to escape who you don't want to feel 

just a mile or two away from the strip

where young men who look old rage at their staggering shadows

in dark corners of an all night drive-thru wedding chapel

you can buy a bride as quick as you can say

yes lord 

then all your unmet desires 

can go meet in a free rave on Fremont street 

where the lasers bounce off street performers 

it may not be eternity, but it is a slice of right now 

all you can do is just call out 

weird dreams that snuck up on you 

as she slips right past you in the crowds 

she probably doesn't even think of you now

but at least the moon sung Sinatra 

as you scuttled on past the Bellagio 

unable to tell day from night

Paula Hayes is a poet hanging out in Memphis, the same town where the ghost of Elvis roams in the jungle room. Since music imbibes her soul and the blues are sometimes her muse, it seems a natural fit.