Las vegas does not exist

in hypotheticals, you wake up,

in the hotel, above the casino,

like some Elvis, like Sinatra,

beneath you, in the lower floors, people gamble, drink,

cry and scream,

an extasy of tackiness,

and fan-dancers.

and beside you,

wearing a matching ring,

is the hypothetical,

gold-digger/lost soul.

oh, your mouth is a parched desert,

you are desperate for a cold glass,

of clear water.

but water does not hold,

in liquid state in this environment,

unless it is mixed in,

to water down ,

the booze

in despair you turn over,

not leaving the unbridgable,

chasm that lies by the king-size.

luckily, the spiders thought hard on this, and included a mini-fridge, where a night stand should be.

inside, you find a poor substitue,

soda water, with a sharp tab to pull,

and a price tag,

attached with a hot glue gun.

you drink the carbonated atrocity,

still impaled upon the sheets,

the gold digger, your new dependent,

is encrusted with shame ,

bismirched with glitter,

smeared with cream.

you hope the cake was good,

not some vanilla cheapness.

this is not happening, you think,

this is not reality, but a dream,

a fevered expression of the everyday,

in all its shams.

the ring is perfect proof , again,

of this surreal moment.

the metal circle is inwardly serrated,

made from a rusty pipe fitting,

it bites into the flesh,

and you know if this was true,

a tetenus shot would be required.

the betrothed, the hitched, now stirrs,

a dragon of carnality,

this beast knew them all,

all who visit , in these regions,

give her same-such jewelry, as tribute,

a trilobite, a satin-covered fossil,

of parched ravines.

her language is unknown to you,

or perhaps,

it is just an prolonged clearing of the apparatus, that said once ‘i do’.

quick, you think, hold still,

this lawfully-wed bewilderment,

has eyes, true.

but their vision,

is based on movement.

The Be-wed,

the grendel to your Beowolfe,

slowly snakes,

she knows well,

the finger-like cliffs, that.surround the unwalled honeymoon suite.

those clifs now stretch long sharp fingers of shadow,

upon the desert sands,

as the sun makes,

its merciless rising,

casting all beneath,

with radiating pain.

you spot a hidden pathway,

spiraling down the bed,

disappearing in the jagged rocks.

but your escape is not to be,

the posseser of the ring,

spots you at last,

flashing burning eyes.

opening the jaws saliva drips,

along with plastic 5$ chips,

that were uncashed.

you now remember,

the drunken pick-up,

the placing of said chips,

in the unfamiliar curvature.

and you then know,

what hopelessness is.

cause Las Vegas does not exist.

it is, but it isn't.

just like this newly-pronounced contract.