Thursday, April 17, 2014


You go to Vegas
or the Riviera of France
in your best James Bond suit,
and the women
in their famous slinky
gowns rub their bare
shoulders against you
as you stand at the
table playing Baccarat.
The dealer has dark
flashy eyes but
doesn't care. You just pass.
You tinkle the ice
in your clear vodka drink.
It's a romantic cold,
a scarey worldly cold
that assumes your self-sufficiency.
You are lonely
but that's how you
are supposed to feel,
how you feel most skillfully.
You win, you lose.
The house takes you.
You try to read
the mind of God.


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