A Short Paraphrased History of Post-WWII Las Vegas

 
Summer, 1947, Siegel searches for his imploded
eye amidst a bullet-littered Beverly Hills carpet.

Residents and refugees at the Flamingo Hotel
heckle a sweaty, out-of-town comedian,

huffing his eulogy into an out-of-order microphone.

Harlots dressed as Greta Garbo's stunt doubles
are drawn to a roulette table's revolving clicks.

Coat check boys sequestered in a backroom sniff fur coats
for hints of expensive perfume and feminine secretions.

Lincoln Continentals, Packards and Oldsmobiles
emblazon the Vegas Strip with a cavalcade of
pseudo-Hollywood cartoon caricatures,
leaving diamond-ingrained hoofprints
on the cowboy-corpse paved desert.

And now,
Frank Sinatra has a stage

to spill his drinks.

The artist's space.

About the poem: I don't really have a drawn-out process. I read for a few hours each day and take a walk to clear my head. I usually bring a notepad and pencil in case any ideas pop-up. I like having my cat around when I write. I bounce ideas off her rather than the wall or a stagnant shadow. 

Crow Hollow 19

Steven Porter

Crow Hollow Books

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