In a Vegas flop house
by Angie O Genesis on Sunday, April 15, 2012 at 2:04pm ·
Big Sur dreaming.
Henry Miller's ghost is scheming.
So beatific, I glow a golden many petaled halo, flowers flowers blooming from my garments.
I'm the baby driver, years down the long line.
Distilled and refined by hardscrapple hardship.
Burning at night, a diamond.
The diamond.
Stars in my eyes,Shining,
With the mountains behind me.
Something started must be finished.
It is too much to have to witness the Paper Moons,
you cannot sing here.
The desert chokes you.
Singing comes after the escape.
The burning will come and I will not look back.
Bob told you that. The ring reminded you.
Lot's wife was the beginning of the story.
Lot drunk and gang raped by his own daughters was the point of destination.
When you are of the South, the bible is the metaphor--
no matter to what end you attempt to escape it.
The stories and stories.
Drunk and pilled up, careening like a driverless car, you take hostages with lies of love.
Anything for the amnesia.
Not everybody wants to forget.
Memory and desire is currency in a forgetting world.
The trick is not a trick when done with devotion.
The hustle is not a hustle when true blessing are wished upon your broken head.
Imperfect beauty.
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