“Sundays” Journal

Poetry as transcribed by those a part of the “Sundays” community of L.A.

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With Damien in Black Hawk

Brent L. Smith
“Sundays” Journal
4 min readJul 30, 2020

Image by Mike Protzik

So we’re there driving through the paved streets of the Old West and Damien’s yelling to girls from the passenger window and he’s drinking from a flask and I’ve been taking swigs here and there while “Love Fuzz” by Ty Segall plays on the radio. The only thing standing out in that little town is a building of glass towering over all of us on the hilltop to the east. New hotel — gaudy and modern and ominous. It sits there a mirror-wrapped castle reflecting the sun’s glare. Damien breaks my spell by saying, “Let’s do Fitzgerald’s Casino.”

“You don’t want to check out a few more first?”

“No. Fitzgerald’s. It’s gotta be Fitzgerald’s. It’s all in the name. Besides, the whiskey’s gone warm and I’m lusting for central air.”

So we’re there in the casino, which is mostly empty except for a loud craps table on the other side of the massive game room, and I’m irritated. Some part of me hates to see other people winning. I’m distracted by the ubiquitous smell of cigarette remains and stale perfume. Awful 70s color scheme. The browns and the yellows and the oranges mix in with the dated odors and so thank god we’ve both been snorting our nasal cavities all to hell. We sit at a blackjack table and I’m already losing. We both order whiskey on the rocks and Damien tips the waitress more than I do and the dealer smiles as I lose more hands and he attempts making quirky small talk about the weather and I tell him to shut the fuck up — “Just deal the cards, man.” Damien’s quietly laughing the entire time. He wins more hands than I do.

I notice that: Damien doesn’t count his chips; that my pack of Parliaments is empty; that I lock eyes with pretty girls who become empty seats — drift in and then fade away; that it doesn’t seem to bother the waitress when I yell at her for more cigarettes; that we walk from casino to casino and none of it seems to end; that all the walls of these Old West buildings have been gutted and fused and revamped; that it’s all just one long building…

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“Sundays” Journal
“Sundays” Journal

Published in “Sundays” Journal

Poetry as transcribed by those a part of the “Sundays” community of L.A.

Brent L. Smith
Brent L. Smith

Written by Brent L. Smith

Culture. Interviews. High Strangeness. Poetics.

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