The southwest doesn't even exist
outside the Nevada strip.
The spirit's only spirits now,
reeking booze breath and
clattering poker chips.

There are no stars to speak of.
Only neon signs that beckon;
caresses weary skin with
sultry reds and blues.

Illuminated billboards, sirens of the night-
how they lay sharp kisses like a spur in the side!
Lousy rope burn, a harmonica croon,
a sneer in the mouth and a 
bullet to bite.