Las Vegas Agitprop

Shirtless, with his bald head reflecting the stars, he dug a hole in the desert.
Shovel in, dirt out.
Over and over and over.

I sensed something wrong…when I walked into the house.
I asked “are you happy to see me?”
I could smell incense. Sandalwood. Something secret.
She was wrapped in silk, as per usual, showing just enough leg and a hint of her breast.
She replied. A cold reply. Like metal in winter.
Something was concealed in her dress.

Shovel in, dirt out. Shovel in, dirt out.

He wore the clothes of a worker, dirty and loose. But his voice was strong as if it belonged on the stage.
He dug his hole.
I’m not sure if he was even speaking to me, to the hole, to anyone.

He chest had a big, red stain on it. It looked like blood.But he seemed to move with ease.

A terrible lie is lava, flowing through and melting the brain.
You can’t hide a corpse.

Into the megaphone…where can I go now? I’m disgraced. I’m dead. Dead…deaD.

His shovel hit a rock and he stopped.
He turned to look at me.
He took some European pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one.

We stood still in the desert, silent, under the moon and surrounded by dirt.

You can never hide a corpse.
I know.
I know that this love is worn out and dull.
I know, for a woman, every man must pay.

He tossed his cigarette and picked up the shovel again.
He pushed the dirt back into the hole. Slowly, methodically.
He smoothed out the ground, erasing all traces of his work.

I sensed something was wrong when I walked into the house…

He mumbled to himself and began to dig in the same spot.
Shovel in, dirt out.
Over and over again.

As I was leaving he yelled after me, pointing to the newly dug hole.

As you can see! Today! With the nails of words…I am nailed to paper!

I left him as he filled the hole back up.
Somewhere a door slams and a gun fires.
A monument.
A funeral.
A hole dug in the desert fifty-three hundred miles away.



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