Vegas Bathroom

Standing in a Vegas 
bathroom.
Airport; crowded
in a strange array,
mirage-like.
A desert oasis
of Capitalism.


I throw water
onto my face
and wonder how 
many people
in this tacky paradise
are on meth.
It would make
the buildings crystallize
and shimmer in the heat.


I am crawling on my hands,
knees through a hot terminal 
with blinding sand.
A juxtaposition of
every country rests strangely
against the asphalt. 


Kaleidoscopic
flush to the desert
lies the capital of
Capitalism. 


I am blinking,
blinking away the
neon lights, their
spastic dances 
nauseating
as a man stands
on linoleum
(oddly humble)
amidst a flock 
of feathered showgirls.


He shouts,
oh the profane
prayer of 
Communism
in the capital
of Capitalism.