Double Door Entropy

At the boulevard paved in lost wages and broken kneecaps, God’s nightlight cuts through the darkness like a buffet hot plate melting butter for cheap lobster, because even Jesus fears retribution in this city. He turned the host into poker chips and wine into water so as not to get gouged at the casino gift shops, where one can get a taste of Tank Girl because a paltry pint costs three dollars.

Drinks are still free if you’re willing to play, so grandmas feed dollars into one-armed bandits that lost their six-shooters to the house decades ago and would-be high rollers lose this month’s rent as the roulette wheel falls on double-zero after betting black in their last ditch effort at a payout; they loiter ’til their tonic and gin comes crawling slowly on the waitress’ tray through the oblivious crowd, her vanity, varicose vainly hidden by stockings that can’t help but highlight the buttcheeks she’s toned in ten-hour shifts in high heels, which get pinched so frequently she’s stopped resigned sighing even – just focuses on the dollar chips she’ll not get for placating the thirsts of paupers.

Tourists tumble out double doors that swing; that part on their own in deference to drunkards simply being – Red Sea miracle in circuitry that’s rote now, doors that spin and spin endlessly like galaxies working toward blissful entropy 100 billion years in the making; and into the warm Vegas summer air, the heat still hanging from the triple digits that peaked at 5pm.

The ghosts of Ben Siegel and Elvis Presley shimmer into existence through the radiation rising off the pavement in this mirage they built out of extortion and entertainment lifestyles that cost them both of theirs, their souls trapped in this purgatory they stitched out the desert sands with gunshot microphones and lounge lizard espionage, where flip-flops replace heels after the fourth uncomfortable hour, where denizens wait impatiently outside nightclubs – preying for payments, praying for kept open bar tabs, where a PBR might as well be boullion – filled past capacity.

A Coven of Two

They formed a coven of two souls joined in one body,
the rhythm that they made could be described as rocking solidly,
shod in moonlight, robed in the breeze,
her quick exhale as his manhood he inside her eased.

They breathe, oblivious to the calm and cool eyes of shades that watch jealously,
having forgotten the warmth of skin, the flutter of a quickened pulse, the sweet stinging of delayed air in the lungs,
they count out in measure each thrust, revelling in the extended moment like a climber of
a ladder seeking out the next rung,
hang there pheromones between the lovers,
their sweat finding purchase on the other’s skin and mingling,
her nails upon his back that set his senses tingling.