Wise Words with Bruce Wise


 

The Planes Fly in to Vegas
by Cawb Delius Ree

The planes fly in to Vegas at a fairly constant flow,
descending past High Roller, Ballys and Bellagio,
from where I’m watching them. They taxi in between my view
of highrise Cosmopolitan and Planet Hollywood.
No wonder it’s the Earth’s 8th largest port in terms of planes.
They had to keep faux Eiffel “low” because of that—insane.
And though Las Vegas is the entertainment capital
and gambling epicenter, the airport is pivotal
in bringing and retrieving constantly all sorts of souls
who’ve come to visit one of Earth’s authentical hell-holes.

_________________________________________________________________

A Decade to Adam Henry Carrière
by Cawb Delius Ree
“The current zeitgeist within the world of poetry publication can only lead to continued mediocrity, if not worse, a
mundanity attained by lax taste, always mild to touch.”
—Ben Smith

To whom dare I now offer this amuse-bouche,
not polished new in pumice stone, nor printed on
a page—a carrier pigeon très recherché?
My nonsense isn’t anything for any—none?
But you alone among Las Vegas denizens
have dared unfold our age in toilet paper rolls,
like Jupiter, so full of labor’s benisons.
Therefore, take this pathetic little scrunch or fold,
this trifle of whatever sort, o, patron bold,
and may it last forever in time’s blackest holes…
or at least in one of Steven Hawking’s bowls.
_________________________________________________________________

The Bettor
by Cawb Delius Ree

I live within a house of cards. The deck is stacked
with broken hearts, hard clubs, fake diamonds, and grave spades.
My words are quickly read, then tossed aside or blacked;
no matter what I say, this disregard pervades.
Round and round the wheel spins; but the house has the edge;
in all that red and black, the only green spot shades
ground zero. I can win roulette, they all allege,
if I just place my bet; and when my number’s up,
I win. All this, see, here, surrounded by this hedge
of slot machines, and hope for silver in the cup.
One face is smacked. The place is packed. The case is cracked.
Enjoy the water turned into wine. Sip and sup.

_________________________________________________________________

The Observer
by Cawb Delius Ree

In the warm desert air beneath the bright full moon
and tiny twinkling glitt’ring stars, my gaze is turned
to the Las Vegas Strip skyline, a lovely boon
of gleaming neon lights electrically burned.
The outlines of the future observation wheel
between the Quad and the Flamingo are discerned—
across the street from Caesar’s Palace—so unreal.
Where are the meadows near this silver scimitar?
I look among the shadows of the night, and feel
its high, 550-feet diameter
will spin me off to some High Roller’s toss too soon
and leave me but a wide-eyed, gaga amateur
before some rough Illusionist’s mirage-swept dune.

_________________________________________________________________

Las Vegas, Nevada
by Cawb Delius Ree

Star Dust, Luxor, Excalibur, Caesar’s Palace,
Aladdin, The Mirage, Frontier, Riviera,
New York New York, Monte Carlo, Circus Circus,
Flamingo, Hilton, MGM Grand, Sahara,
Treasure Island: the hotels and casinos gleam
in the night skyline of Las Vegas, Nevada,
where striking it rich is still everybody’s dream,
crossing the desert. Oh, it is all show and shine,
a beautiful shimmering milk and honey stream,
reminiscent of the year 1849,
Cibola’s gold cities, or Lady Luck’s chalice,
each searcher seeking for his own personal mine.

 

Cawb Delius Ree is a poet of Nevada.

 

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