Living as degenerate gambler in the bowels of hell…commonly known as Las Vegas i find myself tired as the Knuckleheads surprise and i keep adding to my bankroll…
my short collections of poems for the shaw seems incongruous with the heat of the desert sun and i can know longer consider myself a saint or even a repentant sinner.
My face is burnt (from wind) my legs are tired (from daily walks) my back is sore (from afternoon swims)
“my dreams they aren’t as empty as my conscience seems to be…”
and my lungs are full of tar and nicotine.
I am not drinking as the lows outweigh the lows and the highs are no longer than an evening…
it finally comes down to this…
to what? to who? to how? to why?
well the album has been sung the poems have been written the movie is in the can
did i complain? Ha!
attending a show at the Venetian, a hotel on the strip called
peace out.
