Vegas

Today's muse:

Just came back from Vegas. It's beautiful and sad; a study in spiritual contrast.

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Vegas

The bright lights of The Strip focus on nubile women who undulate and weave among firm, muscled men; spotlighting tight bodies that press against one another in unbridled invitation.

The delicate tinkle of laughter floats through the night sky and wraps around you, caresses and fondles, until you are giddy with need. The steady hum of voices is like a lover’s throaty promise against your ear. You ache to reach out, hold it close and pull it inside, ride it until you reach the summit.

Sex and greed is what most come to see. Vegas is careful to hold its lights away from the shadows. It never penetrates the fog where its homeless souls reside. Lined, leathered faces relay stories that no tour guide will sell. At one time, they strolled with the beautiful people; now they slither among the fallen, clutching handwritten cardboard signs that plead for money and salvation.

But it’s the eerie snap of cardboard that drags you back to reality, slams you down to earth and tears away the veil. The flick of fingers on photos: pictures of beautifully airbrushed women with breasts molded by gods, their taut nipples strategically covered with pretty stars.

Or not.

Mute Barkers, capture attention with a practiced snap that releases a high-pitched crack. From one man to another, the hand-over is discreet, with barely a knowing nod. And in the privacy of an over-priced hotel room, you flip through the stack, like coveted baseball cards, while the lights of The Strip taunt you through the hotel window.

Got it. Had it. Want it. Need it.