#60: Whew, Boy, We Gonna Have Us A Time! ... Uh, What? (Hope)

The Biggest Problem With The Masses . . .
Is That They Fail To Save Their Asses,
Mired In Muck And Mess Morasses,
While Donning Their Rosy, Self-Hypno Glasses,
Convinced The Muck Is Just Molasses,
All-Lured By The Allegoric:
Tomorrow Grows The Greenest Grasses . . .
We Will Surely Ace Our Classes,
Keep Our Hair And Lose Our Chassis.
We Grasp For Anything That Passes
For The Yuck-A-Chucked Euphoric.

By now the Buggy's floor was messed
with bits of maps and cards.
The powers that Be can't fully direct
us touring, child-retards.

The only thing this flight's windshield
allowed us to construe
were blurry flashes of colored lights
provided for our view.

Then somewhat uneventfully,
the Carriage slowed and stopped.
We looked out on a desert night
where heat of day still popped.

But feeling we'd ignored a scene,
Jo turned to look around.
"Whoa," he said, calling my eye
to a knee-yawn of a town.

"It's Vegas," I said, heading on down
our knoll and toward the strip.
"Come on! If there's a lesson here,
you know it's gotta rip!"

We came to a corner that, first, we thought . . .
maybe, we'd seen before,
but we didn't recognize the lights,
the marquee, or the door.

I thought the name was pretty weird.
Even the usual grand,
outrageous Vegas, prepared us not
for this, "The Promised Land."

Giant automatic gliding doors
exposed humanity.
We both walked in before we read
all the rules of entry.

We were s'posed to drink a special drink,
and put on special shoes,
but the crowd was going crazy, and
the doorman let us through.

An angel-waitress walked right up,
and handed me some chips.
"Your drinks are with your dealer.
His name is Paco Lipps."

Neither of us felt out of place.
We took a nearby seat.
The dealer greeted us by name.
We were beyond retreat.

Sniffing my drink, peripherally,
I saw Jo shoot his straight.
I thought to stop him, but my words
of warning came too late.

With a growing fire in his eyes,
Jo-Mima looked for trouble.
He grabbed the cards, and held his glass,
and yelled, "Make it a double."

Jo was starting to act so weird
I put my drink down, full . . .
and just in time to avoid my eyes
suffer the pull of wool.

For more than an hour Jo played cards . . .
a gambler pro gone mad.
He went through all the angel's chips,
and everything we had . . .

and all the while, he drank more shots . . .
the house's specialty.
They called it "Dose." It looked like rum . . .
and smelled like lizard pee.

"Jo," I said with great concern,
"we're learning nothing here."
He glared and said his luck would change,
of this, I could be sure.

"I'm all for wasting time with fun,"
I said, a bit uptight,
"but now you're acting weird, and well . . .
this place just don't feel right."

"You need another drink, my man,"
the dealer's voice intoned.
He motioned for the angel, while
he stared me to the bone.

I looked into his eyes to feel
the glaring heat of hell.
I resigned myself to make the move.
I shrugged and said, "Oh well!"

I grabbed Jo's collar, and jerked him up,
and headed for the door.
When no one moved to stop us,
I looked around the floor.

The dealers, dressed in clergy gowns,
looked shocked at what they saw.
I think we really startled them . . .
that we could move at all.

And at that moment, I realized
those special shoes we failed
to put on at the door, were meant,
to keep their wearer's jailed.

Only the waitress angels, and
most of the dealer priests
were trying to catch us as we ran,
as security increased.

I had to grip Jo tightly so
we'd make it to the door.
And he kept yelling that he had
to turn back for some more.

He wasn't acting angry, but,
he looked about to cry
when we burst through an alley door
into the moonlit night.

All at once a stillness fell
upon us in the street.
And only then, Jo-Mima's cries
were audible to me.

". . . then I'll try the other deck . . .
it might be well the case
that another game would offer me
a chance to get the ace . . .
and then I'll try the three of hearts,
or maybe I'll replace
the deuce of clubs with a diamond five,
though seven has the grace,
for my next game . . . yeah, that's the way
I can win this race . . .
. . . and then I'll try the other deck . . ."

He kept repeating it over again,
just like some mantra rap.
I grabbed him by the shoulder, and
I gave his face a slap.

"Yeow," Jo-Mima looked at me.
His eyes began to clear.
He seemed to have no memory of
how we'd gotten there.

It didn't look like anyone
had followed our escape,
but as we passed that first front door,
I saw behind the drape.

There was a neon sign the size
of a business envelope.
We missed it on our first time 'round,
"Eternity of Hope."

Jo-Mima's twenty drinks of Dose
were kind to wear off fast.
By the time we reached the Buggy,
the effect had fully passed.

"Jo-Mima," I said, "can you recall
this past ten hours, or so?"
"I remember stepping into the light . . .
beyond that, I don't know."

"You don't remember playing cards
and drinking all night long . . .
spending all that money, and
then trying to prolong . . .

the inevitable loss of everything,
like maybe even soul?
I mean, those cats were scary . . .
we're lucky to be whole.

And as near as I can figure out,
you were playing at
the Devil's poker table, and
without a caveat.

I guess you must have lost your mind,
but then, there is no proof.
If I was really right we'd see
this desert Buggy move."

Right about then, ten yards away
a cactus burst to flame.
The Voice then shook the desert with
more sympathy than shame.

"Well, I'm glad you made it out of there.
The stumbling that you do
seems to move you forward, and,
somehow it gets you through.

I'm noting all your strategies
for future students' sake . . .
there really might be method to
your progress by mistake.

But, as we've made a habit of
my lending you a hand,
again, I have to guide you some
for you to leave this sand.

This place that you've now visited,
cause-see-no, though it seems,
is really just the gates of hell
dressed up in human schemes.

Lights and money, and pretty looks,
and going places, are
the kinds of things that humans will
prefer to truth, by far.

It's really Hope that takes a man
on tragic walks in life,
as much as people think that Hope
can help deter their strife . . .

and that it does, and does it well,
for it can blind a man,
and keep his heart so full of dreams
that it won't see to plan.

Hope can be a tool for joy
and wonder for a few,
but, usually it steals your soul,
and takes your future, too.

While the trap of Hope is deep and dark,
its entry looks so sweet,
it thieves your capabilities
before you chance to meet.

And though this State is one that I
might choose to warn you of,
your luck has seen you, once again,
slip through the evil glove."

Then, sort-of like a fading song,
the Voice was gone again.
The Buggy started up real strong,
and Jo and I got in.