xli

tempest brewed on the arteries of suburban las vegas. where the trees and bushes do not whisper, but sigh instead. for every jones where an electric buzz rattles the bones of house fence and street lamp there is a fremont glass tube ebbing neon to counteract the ups. a depressant with a brighter outlook on life. a downer brighter than the stars.

where outside of the little city the wind strokes the brush and joshua trees like a cat’s tail loves the table leg, inside the weepy people bustle mumbling. refusing to move their feet to stroke the ground like the wind strokes the brush and joshua, instead tossing a dragged foot downward. as the eyes are cast to the old house. with every bumbling shuffle tempest waxes a blue cholic. with every sneery teen the storm flinches. what once was loved or at least living by a quicker pace now disintegrated into service industry, weary and warlike both.

las vegas, heart of desert throbbing of noble gases, though not so noble any more. las vegas, beacon light house over dusty ocean, which the trading boats revere but the sailors scorn. lost: vegas, painted as she be, pained as it may seem that such an effortful sky line might feel unloved. lost: a generation of native born who gaze upon the reds blues greens yellows and think spurn. not home.

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