Friday, June 29, 2012

SHUFFLE MACHINE



SHUFFLE MACHINE

Between her fingers, 
it ruffles like
a thing with feathers, 
two faces riffling,
glossy finished breaths,
each a volume of vortex
arrested and booked under
the Second Law of Thermodynamics,
a coffle of cardboard chaos,
replacing male order,
dovetailing a desire
that cannot be boxed or cut
by sharpest image edges
or a deck’s sexy designs,
Victoria's Secret interlaced.
What's held in
your table-side tank 
of bated breath?
Necks pulse in vain,
throb like traffic lights
on a Saturday night,
hands clean as gloves
on a bourgeois burglar, 
cuffed and cupped,
trembling, riffling the clay
chips lining the edge
of a bet that begs anarchy.
She is your Miss Fortune, 
running fountain of infinity. 
Everybody misses
the river except you. 
Always the kissed banks
swishing the same. 
The pot wants 
to be right,
maybe raised. 
What it gets 
is to be splashed.
More and more under
each undealt door
through which "next" echoes,
there is a rising,
like the soddeness of 
an unseen sea. 
Now her
practiced hands pitch
tomorrow's date, 
helicoptering across
an oblong table.
The waitress brings
something you crave
as a daffodil doth
of the dew,
(no napkin, please)
says sip this,
her lips are full,
her wrists fragrant,
but her heart seems barred.
I heard a bee buzz, honey
when I tried. 
And if you tip her-
over? Spit, 
Was she
swallowing anything?
This aint origami,
(you are not allowed
to fold.)
Who can change
the credit of the cards?
She would of course
simply re-deal
to your empty seat. 
Anyways,
she was
the Queen of Hearts
peeled like a rind
by randomized hands,
but were you ever
her suited King kicker?

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon)
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