This Was Once Wild Horse Country, Really?
Rusty center pivots and dry wells:
college psych professors
palm the heads of the homeless,
pole dancers lipstick ox blood nipples,
and a Walmart fat woman sits the backseat
of a dead Pontiac angled south on her porch,
yanks at her gasoline-odor sweatpants.
A few miles southwest, in Sparks,
poised homecoming queen candidates
strut a stage in sleek pink dresses
as mangy skateboarders, eye-pop-eager
on momma's pills, leave blood
on the front stairs of a high school.
The girl most favored to be queen giggles
on low rent vodka, swallows tobacco juice.
Little darlin' and me.... We splatter
a motel room with pork 'n' beans
semi-heated on a used hot plate.
laugh and hoist beers to the memory
of Wyatt Earp and his Tonopah saloon.
Out on the desert near Gerlach,
with the Burning Man clean-up crew gone,
autograph seekers with nylon string guitars
pester a Marilyn Monroe impersonator,
swathed in a dusty black satin sheet,
as she chloral-dances for Clark Gable's ghost.