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This writing was accepted for publication
in the 84 page perfect-bound issue...
cc&d magazine (v211)
(the August 2010 Issue)
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Order this writing in the 2010 poetry collection book

An Open Book		 An Open Book - 2010 poetry collection book click on the book cover
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Enriched Poetry - collection book
Order this writing in the 2010 collection book of poetry
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School Trip to the Vegas Strip

John Buckley and Martin Ott

Carlos no longer preferred D.C. once their history teacher had been able
to comp a suite. Their education had begun when the vans rolled up

to Excalibur dumpsters, where headless stone knights guarded the parking
lot due to the renovation, the endless territorial expansion, a feudal lesson

for the kids like how the baccarat deck represented the long odds of serfs
playing dodgeball. He flashed on a scene of endless paste-eating fat kids

hoeing broccoli and shuddered. Spazzy Tommy Nguyen started singing “Lights,
Camera, Action!” in time with the flickering neon. Soon they all were chanting,

until Mr. Malocchio said to put a cork in it. (Then they Q-U-I-E-T-L-Y made
popping sounds, an ocean of opened Martinelli’s.) The math teacher stirred

a frenzy when he had them count all 8,000 fish at the Mermaid Lounge:
electric blue fish with lemon-drop fins and jellyfish crackling in narcotized

circlets, sticky fingers on glass, noses running like the Coca-Cola addicts
that they were. They bet each other during the kitchen tour, zillions of dollars,

who would dare to climb inside the industrial dishwasher for a complete ride.
All of the kids got into the act: Dead-Eye Jackson shot marbles on a spinning

wheel and pale Marie Ann didn’t let asthma stop her from blowing on bones
on felt or Doug “The Slug,” last picked for all schoolyard games, even got

to be a marker while the guidance counselor prayed that bullets over snowmen
would hold on the last river draw. It was while God laughed at him – we don’t

know why – that the impromptu hide-and-seek tag safari began, as a dozen
or more precious cherubs made eye contact, hit the deck and crawled

between the legs of game tables and grownups, suburban panther cubs
on the mutual prowl. Some snuck back to the buffet, where Miguel reinvented

fusion cuisine, scrambling his variation on arroz con pollo out of chicken
tenders, pork fried rice and ketchup. Johnny B. froze his lips in a suckling

pose when he placed them around the spout of the soft-serve ice-cream machine.
Rose tucked in her shirt and beamed when she decided the blackjack dealer

was her mother, breaker of hearts and occasional moon joy, found again with
diamonds in the fake sky over Caesar’s beckoning her to adulthood, to home.



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