in my room was empty, the internet connection was so slow

as to be useless, but in my opinion these are minor issues.

I let the soft rain of the modern showerhead caress my body.

I watched a woman on the floor below slide up and down

a tennis ball bulged beneath her spine. I dreamed at checkout

I was charged $449 for pay-per-view porn, an outrage, but

how could I react, the guy behind me in line kept pushing into me,

and not so subtly. I grew skeptical of the Wild Dunes

when I saw the only people of color besides me at the hotel

hanging outside my window, reconstructing the facade.

High marks, though, to the complimentary breakfast buffet

at the “jazz” restaurant. Piles of pineapple. Sliced grapefruit.

Is there anything better than sliced grapefruit? I mean,

you don’t have to insert your spoon properly or anything.

The bags of coffee beans for sale in the coffee shop

that said TAKE ME HOME AND GRIND ME were a nice touch.

The region is known for its seafood. I tried the lobster bisque.

Is there anything more disappointing than lackluster lobster

bisque? I sampled the popcorn shrimp. I ate at the bar

of the restaurant moonlighting as a boat, shuffling a paper

to look less alone. Did you know Rem Koolhaas

likes to “find optimism in the inevitable”? I thought I might

have food poisoning, so I boxed my shrimp and went back

to my room to throw up in private. Then I didn’t throw up.

Soon enough I was eating the popcorn shrimp in bed,

watching Deep Impact on TNT for probably the thirtieth time.

The movie fails to find optimism in the inevitable,

as Americans and Russians band together to stop a comet

and nuke it in half, creating a two-part apocalypse instead of one.

Or does it succeed? I can’t remember what my old telephone

used to sound like. Now I respond to the horniest vibrations.

I dreamed I was picking her up in a dark football stadium

parking lot. It was raining. She was wearing a cheerleading outfit

and none too happy. The proximity of the Holiday Inn Express

to Cookout Burgers was noteworthy, as I was able to make

the short drive across the street in the rain for dinner.

Great ambience, as I watched one couple run through the rain

only to realize that Cookout was drive-thru only. They

pranced through the drive-thru, soaking, drippily in love.

I took solace in being able to order a corndog for a side.

The Mirage was wonderful, during my stay the US Death toll in Iraq

climbed to 4,000. Over 80,000 Iraqis had lost their lives.

Vague dreams of “hitting bone” during intercourse. Of course

I woke up and realized my cock was pushing against the mattress.

The only thing I didn’t like about The Mirage was my room

was located on the side where the volcano erupts every thirty minutes.

I would be asleep, when all of a sudden the room would start

to glow red. I was not on the bottom floor, I was at the very top

and still that occurred. I can only imagine being at the bottom,

waking to so much fire every half hour. The blinds were closed,

there was nothing I could do. Other than that, it was great.

Time to mix scotch with orange soda.

O where is there an end of it,

the soundless wailing?

Here Eliot was talking about O’Hare.

It is time to wonder if one could kiss Katie Couric

without thinking of The Joker.

Does that smile ever stop?

If I said, Katie, be sad, would she unhook that smile

from the nails in her cheeks?

The purgatorial ghosts at C-10 would like

to bludgeon her.

I can see this by the way they grip their Chiquita bananas.

It is time to try the McDonald’s Double Filet o’ Fish.

You knew that time was coming.

How much tartar sauce can be creamed on a thing?

How much tartar sauce can be creamed on Katie Couric?

I would like to stuff her face between these buns.

Double McKatie Couric.

It is time to look too long at magazine covers.

Time to realize a man never really gets over the swell

of breasts. Could Buddha have sat

for so long under a tree with magazine leaves?

That is an engagement I would like to see, Buddha v. Maxim magazine.

Lindsay Lohan is “back.”

Avril Lavigne is “not a party girl and wears underwear.”

I love the discourse community that produces that kind of headline.

Likely some poor fucker like me

boarded the plane I was supposed to be on

because I got bumped.

That is the way of the world, one person reaping the benefits

of another getting f—

I know I’ve reaped my share of benefits, so I shan’t complain.

Yes, it is time to say “shan’t.”

Bishop’s “One Art” was inspired by O’Hare.

The man next to me reads Ulysses,

which most people think takes place in Dublin

but really takes place in O’Hare.

The man is cute, he holds the novel on top of the Annotated.

The footnotes provide the saucer for the cup.

Reading Ulysses is like waiting in O’Hare,

you go to each word like a gate and get delayed to the Annotated.

The Department of Homeland Security

has raised the National Threat Advisory Level

to orange.

It is time to take up origami.

How perfect would it be, someone to teach me to tango?

Never the right instructor for your wait.

This is not a lyric poem

but a poem of delay, which is the only appropriate poem

for our time because I think you know.

Absurd, United telling me they couldn’t let me on the plane

a minute late. I stripped like everyone else.

Always that mysterious fucker

fucking one.

Is this the closest an American comes to God?

Dear Mysterious Fucker, the sound of your fucking is the sound

of the Starbucks espresso frother.

Make a poet wait too long and he’ll take over time.