No one says hello back when the hours grow tired
two minutes of self worth reflection in Vegas
I’ve got one thousand black cats in my pockets just for you
I’ve got thirty two cents worth of blood not mine in my pockets just for you
I’ve given my pockets pockets to be able to hold more even though I have nothing more to give them
My home back East was pulled out from under my feet
I guess I’ve shed the oogle from my skin
Wandering Vegas gumming my pipe
using serotonin to wire wrap
the teeth I dug up smearing a grin across the clay of my face.
I am wearing a leather jacket stolen in Tucson
I am wearing a straw hat
decorated w/ a raven feather
torn by Grand Canyon hail
& teeth necklaces welded w/ amphetamine roller coaster tracks.
Oi, here we go
wandering w/ wide pupils
neuron hungry / wet
with the dark
of closed eyelids,
light lil shimmers
of Denny’s faux light
that feel like burning dandelions
leaking rib rotted wishes
more real than the Strips’ lights
These lights shine like the Bay sinking into the Earth
These lights shine like the crust melting
These lights shine like human constellation going limp & falling from the sky
or are those bedroom ceiling stars learning to shoot?
“Oi, don’t worry
man, we’re not
& the hill
is a brief 10,000+ year hallucination
& the mountains
overlooking the hill
barely notice our whispers
as the quietest stream’s tone
is much more appealing,”
I garble type the above down.
“We’re super chimpanzees on a rock in space!” Neeko yelled
over the ugly yellow table
shaking w/ our twerking pupils
like a poem only the writer loves.
the most terrifying experience in Vegas is wandering among the street cleaners that scrub away last night’s emissions
Jeremiah Walton is 20, from N.H., and runs traveling pop-up bookstore Books & Shovels. He founded Nostrovia! Poetry in 2011, and co-manages it while on the road, performing at open mics / slams / festivals / & street corners across the country. He shares his writing at Gatsby’s Abandoned Children.