Leaving Las Vegas
“the unbearable catastrophe of the soul” Donna Tartt
Six months in town
and all she had to show
for it was a stolen glass
ashtray from a Vegas casino.
The last man had left some
clothes in her closet to create
the illusion he might be about
to return but after awhile
of no man, she looked closer
at what was left behind, and saw
the clothes for what they were.
The bad deal of her life was
enough to want to make her go
for all the drugs in the medicine
chest, wash them away with last
of the red wine, but after the last
time, feeling five times worse
than she had before when she came
around, plus a week in county,
“for observation”, made her reconsider.
Besides you had to be truly
demented to intentionally create
a scene that required a stomach
pump near the end of it.
Lucky thing that last guy had
helped with a month’s rent so
she had a place to stay while trying
to motivate herself to do something
like work.
Not moving felt so real, so perfect,
the idea became: maybe I’ll just
sit here and sweat until I’m gone.
Give new meaning to the concept of
the slow death.
Maybe leave a note behind: it wasn’t
much but it was the best I could do.
Robbie Red Boots
The waitresses all called
him Robbie Red Boots.
Like, who goes to a night
club, rain or shine, summer
or winter, looking like he
just crawled out of bed
and dressed himself in
the dark, then put on
the first pair of footwear
he could find by the door
and sneaks out into the night.
In those days, there were real
bands and none of the girls
had the nerve to ask him
why he was taking notes,
why he always sat at the same
two top nearest the door,
only came for the last sets,
drank the same thing, house
white. It’s not like he was a
one and done, no tip grifter,
not at all, quite the opposite
in fact. Whatever, it takes
all kinds, they said after a year
or so of seeing him. Turns out
he always dressed that way.
Wrote an Arts and Entertainment
thing for the local rag and those
notes were for reviews. Rumor
was he had some major paper
bylines, once upon a time,
but he blew it on the booze.
It was hard to imagine Robbie
Red Boots in the fast lane but
it was all there, in black and white,
in the obit he wrote himself.
Local writer dies in late night
car crash. You never know.
Body Heat
Oppressive night, so thick
with the heat, air clots in
the lungs, and humidity leaves
a stain on the skin as florid as
a bruise that darkens, then deepens,
as the night goes on and on and on.
Long walks from the overworked
fridge, lose their chill at the lips,
beading, condensation like sweat
bubbles on brown textured glass.
There is no taste to it going down,
is a kind of carbonated pain,
six swallows kill, and then it is time
for another. And another after that.
Drinking solves nothing when sleep
refuses to come. The street hazed
by heavy fog, static haloes of street
lamp light disfigures the pavement
into odd shadows beyond definition.
Lazy eyes droop as the stillness
becomes a weight pressing into
swollen flesh. Somewhere, up the road,
over the hill, sirens; the smell of
something burning, black plumes of
smoke rising from a glowing place
streaked by embers and crackling
light as an animated, nearly silent tableau,
so unreal, even the unmistakable scent
of death that accompanies it fails to
change the presumption that this night
might never end.
Six months in town
and all she had to show
for it was a stolen glass
ashtray from a Vegas casino.
The last man had left some
clothes in her closet to create
the illusion he might be about
to return but after a while
of no man, she looked closer
at what was left behind, and saw
the clothes for what they were.
The bad deal of her life was
enough to want to make her go
for all the drugs in the medicine
chest, wash them away with last
of the red wine, but after the last
time, feeling five times worse
than she had before when she came
around, plus a week in county,
“for observation,” made her reconsider.
Besides you had to be truly
demented to intentionally create
a scene that required a stomach
pump near the end of it.
Lucky thing that last guy had
helped with a month’s rent so
she had a place to stay while trying
to motivate herself to do something
like work.
Not moving felt so real, so perfect,
the idea became: maybe I’ll just
sit here and sweat until I’m gone.
Give new meaning to the concept of
the slow death.
Maybe leave a note behind: it wasn’t
much but it was the best I could do.
In the morning hours
After the toasting of
the new year, we’re in
The Lark, having one
for our late friend Glenn
former owner of the bar.
The guy next to me says,
“Don’t I know you?”
“Harry?” I say.
“And you are?”
“Al.”
“Right. How you doing?”
“I’m living.”
“I hear that.”
Our only previous social
interaction as pallbearers
in killed-in-horrific car accident,
former Lark owner, Glenn’s
funeral. The conversation goes
precipitously downhill
from there. Where else
could it go?