Wide Open Decadence


It’s not common knowledge but a cult sort of thing –
the Nevada desert – where anything goes.
Decadence in the desert – Babylon reenacted.
In casino towns it’s a marketing ploy,
“What happens here stays here,”
so act as irreverent as you want.
Money flows freely with no holds barred.
Don’t dare criticize the prime
economic driver for the state.

But it’s not just the urban cities
that boast unbridled debauchery.
In an ephemeral city out in the wilds,
it’s a rave of artistic experimentation
in a place so remote you can hide in open sight.
A skating rink of Black Rock,
the playa hosts modern day beatniks,
all of man’s inhibitions shed in one place.
First-time visitors’ guide warns
of possible culture shock –
make up your mind ahead of time
to be participant or voyeur.

Hanging in the air the malodorous
smell of naked unwashed, bodies –
sunburned, dust-covered and ungroomed,
many covered in body paint –
appearance and identity ceded.

Building three-story effigies of
pop icons in the name of art,
rickety towers like golden calves –
ecstatic climax when lit up with fire,
like a fever devouring the fabricated effigy
til nothing is left but piles of sticks and ashes.
Festival-goers wonder if these constructs
of imagination really existed at all
or were they just a psychedelic dream?
Brushing off the dust, bathing, and packing up,
they attempt to shake themselves back
into reality as they leave.

What’s left is a dirty playa, filth and debris.
False claims of keeping it clean
prod the land managers’ Cheshire grin,
while the festival fees poured in
to fund more razing somewhere else.
What is there in the desert to ruin after all?