in the Center of the Universe
In Showgirls, Nomi Malone eats her fries
and burger, all bright lights big Las Vegas
atop the Flamingo Hotel while the sun sets
into the magentas and oranges of the resort
and the Strip of the '90s, before the showgirl
becomes a femme of the past. How many
great love stories take place in Sin City or
in those '50s sci-fi movies where would
the aliens park their saucer for a mid-day
spritzer and Dirty Martini and lobster tail
or on Project Runway, Tim Gunn declares,
“Welcome to the Center of the Universe”
to the designers, in the Garment District,
which is why Godzilla invades New York
so often. But where does this leave Vegas
in the food chain of Kaiju conquests, and side
note: Ultraman was my mother’s favorite
character growing up, his name in Cantonese
literally, “Egg superhero,” battling it out,
and goddess bless Nomi Malone for battling
it out—for craving the lead in The Stardust’s
Goddess so much, she pushes Gina Gershon’s
Cristal Connors down the fucking stairs.
Cheers to ambition. Or how Nomi’s name is
pun: “Know me? I’m alone,” or “No, me?
I’m alone.” Or as the saying goes, It’s lonely
at the top. At every airport, I am alone,
ordering the overpriced double bourbon,
remembering another cliché: a former friend
once wrote a poem about how every man
at the airport wanted to sleep with her.
Four summers ago, I met a lover, born
in the Year of the Cock at the Aria Hotel’s
Lift Bar. He ended up calling every night,
though I wish— At the turn of the Millennium,
my father and I walked around the Forum Shoppes
of Caesar’s Palace—the painted sky—years
before he said, “Please don’t end up alone.”
On New Year’s, wind gushing, I walk past
The Flamingo—a time machine, like watching
a father taking a photo of his child at Caesar’s
out front, posing next to—Winged Victory.
