Half-Drunk on Fremont Street.

Half-Drunk on Fremont Street

by james bezerra

For me

it was like

touching the face of God

when, half-drunk on Fremont Street,

I realized

the Las Vegas strip club

in my favorite novel

was real,

with just a slightly altered name.

I don't have

a Mecca,

or even

a Galilee,

but as I stood there

besotted

beneath that

high bright

blinking canopy of light,

I briefly vibrated into tune

with the appallingly strange

and randomly merciful

interconnectedness

of everything.

G-string Sirens beckoned

into the air conditioned blue light

scented with lotus blossoms

and thick with Blowback.

Heaven likely

doesn't have strippers

and Hell

likely doesn't have

a two drink minimum

at nine bucks apiece,

But what a revelatory

few moments

I once was

gifted while

half-drunk on Fremont Street.

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