Saturday night in the city of gods everything is man-made
having been constructed, deconstructed and reconstructed;
even the gods are recycled on this planet.

The silicon ******* of dead women are sold as gold.  Plastic surgeons create walking, talking billboards who can no longer smile, for fear they may crack.

Uptown, lightening strikes the same spot once, twice, three times
and a star is reborn; neon lights up the sky again. Everyone else in the up part of town crowd into that same spot and wait for their turn.

Here in the down part of town, the others, drink to alleviate the weight of pain and each sentence ends with “I remember when” but they never do.

A prodigal mathematician with a pointy nose points to a bronze statuette dancing slowly and alone in the corner of the room and tells me that everything that ever was is signified in the rhythm of her Spanish hips.

Then he says, “I remember when.”

But I don’t think he does.