UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY

MARINA RUBIN

The Tourist's Guide To Treasures Of Nevada

we flew to Vegas on the spur of the moment grabbed a taxi from
the airport checked into hotel Circus Circus and didnít leave the
room for four days. cooped up inside we read and practiced the
art of Kama Sutra alternating between the Pillow Book and the
self-help manual of sexual positions for the very flexible yogis.
we raided the mini bar, ordered room service around the clock,
refused a change of sheets and towels, the "do not disturb" sign
hung on our doorknob like a banner, defying our parents who
worried that we might get married, or waste our tuition money
on the slot machines. we saw the rays of sun only in the cab on
the way back to the airport. driving through the strip, Tropicana,
the roaring lions of MGM, abandoned ships of Treasure Island,
fountains of Bellagio that shot up into the sky to the music of
Rachmaninov and Offenbach, we looked at each other and we
knew it was over. we would have been better off taking a room
at the Harbor Motor Inn, that dump just off the belt parkway in
Brooklyn, where they charged by the hour and cardboard walls
were covered with spunk of truck drivers and pimply teenagers









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