this
neighborhood is changing me for the worst, i'm afraid.
last night i
walked into my local 7-11 where out front swayed a tall, lanky, white
teenaged man-beast, shoeless and drooling preposterously; catatonic,
with no special plan.
i assume that it was the cruel Trickster-drug
'Spice' which made him such.
i entered the establishment using my
shirtsleeve cuff to open its never-locked doors and
said out loud to no one in particular or everyone who inhabited the
place,
'There's a Zombie outside. Do you want me to kill it?'
Never
since Oscar Wilde have you heard a line so timed for an environment ripe
resonate all compulsive gamblers, wretched drug-takers, shoplifters,
whores and pimps who left themselves momentarily and their squalid
interior thoughts, as well as the countermen, and gave to me approbation
for something from which upon reconsideration i shrink, seeming to be
mined from the most base and schadenfreude mine but which i must confess
follows me unceasing here as the only cloud in this overbought
landscape carved and watered by the inventor and hermit of Sin City,
Howard Hughes, who happened in Vegas to stay in Vegas
