Of Bad Beats and River cards

. . . and we're back! Grinding all those long hours at Showboat trying to hit the Bad beat Jackpot disrupted my normal routines and got me out of writing on any regular kind of basis. But I'm back playing normal hours and moving between poker rooms, including my favorite room-The Borgata. Which is ironic because it's also the only poker room in AC that I've ever been banned from.

It all started with me flopping a set of Queens in a 2/5 NL Hold'em game after I had raised Pre-Flop to $25 and gotten four callers. The board came out Queen high with two small Hearts, so I fired $80 into the $132 pot and got called by a young kid who I figured was on a flush draw, the Turn was a black Eight and I decided to price him out of his draw, which basically means I was going to bet more than he could get proper odds to call. I pushed $180 into the almost $300 pot and without much hesitation he called. I didn't really like it because now the pot was so big it was going to be difficult for me to fold on the River if a Heart came, which of course it did. I checked and he quickly moved All-In, and now I had a decision to make. My read was that he had been on a draw and that the turn helped him somehow, but why would he move All-In and blow me off the hand? Especially since he could bet $200 and I would have a tough time folding. I had started the hand with ~$700 and still had more than $400 left, because he had me covered it was going to cost me all my chips to see his hand. I figured this was a good spot for him to bluff, especially if he had a hand like KQ or QJ and was afraid I might have AQ (which beat him.) Despite my read, I decided to call and he flipped up the A8 of Hearts. I cursed my luck and fired my two holecards into the muck, as anger rose through me like fire through an elevator shaft in an apartment building. "You Dumbass" I told myself, "You put him on a hand and then paid him off like a donkey" I was now stuck $1000 in this game after running KK into AA for my whole stack earlier. I pulled out my roll and snatched off another five Benjamins, then tossed them onto the table. I was so pissed at myself I could barely see straight and after stacking my new chips decided I was too emotional to keep playing. I got up and headed to the bathroom so I could take a break and relieve the pressure in my bladder that had been building for the last hour as I attempted to get even.

I am allergic to dust (and thus most particulate matter in the air) and I often avoid the bathrooms in the Borgata poker room because they tend to fill with cigarette smoke, especially on days when there is a tournament being played, but the morning tourny was down to a few tables, so I figured it would be relatively clear.  Imagine my chagrin when I turned the corner and was greeted with the sight of a guy standing in front of the mirror with a lit cancer stick dangling from his mouth like he was in his own private smoking parlor. "Excuse me" I said, "This is a non-smoking area, I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't smoke here" and then turned to use the urinal. I finished my business quickly and then turned to see him still standing there puffing away. "Yo, Man" I said with a voice that had gained a slight quiver, "I asked you nicely not to smoke that in here." He smiled and said "Sorry Pal, maybe next time." And who knows what it was exactly; maybe it was his smirk or his $500 Versace sunglasses and his $250 Girbaud shirt or his NYC accented arrogance or all the bad beats I'd taken that day, but suddenly I was a metal pail placed under a leaking roof that had filled past the brim and had a bulging skin of water curving above it, held in place only by surface tension. And his comment was one drop too many, the crown of water burst and overflowed the sides of the pail. Before either of us knew exactly what had happened my right hand flew up and knocked the cigarette from his mouth and into the mirror, causing it to hit the sink and bounce back towards us. I picked it up and said "No, this time" and put the still fuming stub out on his forehead. He rocked backed in shock, reached up to wipe ash from his forehead and said "What the Fuck?!?!?" And now my eyes were two lasers boring into his, my fists clenched, my facial expression saying only "If you feel froggish, then leap motherfucker." He took another step back, his own face now covered with a mask of infuriation. I was silent, but noticed that the guy behind him had turned and was angry as well.

I diverted my eyes from the smirky smoker and eyed his boy. He was about 6'2" and looked like he knew his way around a weight room. Have you ever been so pissed that you ceased caring about anything, anywhere? I stopped his boy with my glare and said "If you want some, you can get some too, tough guy." They both took stock of the situation. I knew if there was going to be a fight that I was going down on the losing end, but one of them was going down with me. We stood there frozen in our stances, nobody speaking or looking away, my eyes blazing like a pack of Marlboros in the mouths of a platoon of soldiers. Finally, the second guy said "Come on Amir, this isn't worth it, let's just get Security." They eased past me and out the door into the bustle of the poker room. I exhaled slowly and realized that my whole body was trembling, I leaned against the sink and tried to compose myself. But my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I figured walking back to the table might calm me down, so I left the bathroom and headed back to my seat. As I approached the table I could see both guys at the front of the poker room talking to a Security Guard, so rather than sit, I headed in that direction. "There he is!" they said "That's the guy." By now there were several officers converging, their radios crackling. As I reached the front, a Security Supervisor rounded the corner into the poker room and positioned himself between us. "Did you just have an altercation with these gentlemen in the Men's Room?" he asked me. I nodded yes. "Hold it right here, Sir" he said. After taking their statement he came over and asked me for my version of what happened. I told him straight up with no embellishment whatsoever. By now, the guy was claiming that I had punched him in the face and spit on him as well. When asked if I punched him, I said "Look, I'm 6'3" and 235 pounds, If I had punched him in the face you wouldn't need to ask me, it would be clear from the damage to his face." The Supervisor nodded. He informed me that Amir wanted to press charges and therefore an Incident report would need to be filed, did I have any ID? He also said that as a result of the paperwork I would automatically be banned from the Borgata. I produced my ID and stood there quietly, Amir was now talking very loudly about all the things he was going to do to me when we got to the parking lot. More Security arrived and got between us and it seemed like the more officers that came, the louder he got, until finally they had to ask him several times to calm down.

Eventually we wound up downstairs in the Security Office where I was asked to wait in a Holding Cell until ACPD arrived. The cop got there quickly and took Amir's statement before coming to the Cell where I sat. He asked me if I had slapped the cigarette from his mouth and I said yes. He asked me if I had put it out on any part of his body and I replied "Yes, his forehead." He then informed me that in the state of New Jersey that constituted Assault. "No problem" I said, "All I ask is that you prosecute him for smoking in the bathroom." The officer said that was a fair deal. He then went out and asked Amir if he was smoking a cigarette when the incident started, "Yes" said Amir, the officer then told him that if he wanted to press charges against me that that meant that he would be prosecuted for smoking in the bathroom. Amir asked what the penalty was, the officer said it was a $300 Fine. "It would be well worth it" Amir said. "OK" said the cop, "Please stand and turn around". Amir did so and the cop slapped his cuffs on him. "What are you doing?" asked Amir, "That guy assaulted me!" "Yes" said the cop, "But I told you it was a $300 fine, we're going to the station and after you pay the fine, you can press charges against Mr. Dias-Porter." Amir began to protest, but the cop wasn't having it. "I told you what was going to happen" he said several times. As they passed the open cell door, the cop turned to me and said "Mr. Dias-Porter you're free to go. If charges are filed you'll have to appear in court to answer them or a Warrant will be filed for your arrest. You are hereby banned from this property, if you are found on the Borgata premises you can be arrested for Trespassing. Do you have any questions?" I nodded no and they left. I asked the Security Supervisor how long I was banned for, he said "That guy was a complete asshat and deserved what he got. There's no time limit, just write a letter asking for reinstatement and I'll put in a good word with my boss." I thanked him and headed up the escalator to the casino floor, with the words "To Whom it May Concern . . ." already lining up in my mind.

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

Hiatus (Updated)

The Bad Beat Jackpot in the Harrah's casinos in Atlantic City is currently over $718k. I've been playing 12-15 hours a day trying to be there when it hits and thus collect a Room Share (which could be worth $700-3500). Because of this I've been too tired and/or busy to post regularly. As soon as it hits I'll be back on schedule.

So, it finally hit on Monday Aug. 13th. The total Jackpot was 787k, the room share was $958. I love playing poker, but the long days days grinding were starting to wear me down, especially since I wasn't taking time to do much writing. There are three things I need in my life to be truly happy; time to read and write, poker, and the love of a good woman. And two out of three aint bad, but lately I had been down to one. It's good to have more of a balance. I wasn't having the best day pokerwise, I had lost $200 earlier that day playing 1/2 at the Borgata in a session where I basically never won a hand. This after losing the night before in a bad session where I let my blood sugar get too low by not eating and then tried to rectify the situation by drinking iced tea after iced tea, instead of quitting and going to eat. I didn't play well and after losing a small amount decided to quit after about 6 hours. So Monday wasn't looking so hot, when I got to the Showboat around 3pm. I was losing about half my $200 starting stack after getting two outed by a moron who wouldn't fold an underpair, when the BBJ announcement was made. I didn't actually hear the announcement because I was having a really interesting discussion with a very pretty French woman who was sitting next to me (after all if there's anything I'm good at it's having interesting discussions with pretty women). We were discussing Haitian Kreyol poetry, (because what else would two poker players be discussing while waiting for the BBJ to hit?) reading it online actually, a subject which came up because the dealer was Haitian and Lou-Lou (the French woman) made the remark that Haitian Creole was a beautiful spoken language and it was a shame that it had no literature. I of course corrected her and she made that haughty face that beautiful women tend to make when they think they're dealing with a fool. But she was smarter than the average bear and when I suggested that she google 'pwezi kreyol' she did. She also was smart enough to figure out that 'pwezi' was a phonetic spelling of the French word 'poesie' (poetry). When she pulled up an actual poem in Kreyol, I was the one who got the shock when I read the first line of the poem. The first part of the line was "Si'm ta mande'w . . . " And even though I can't read Kreyol I immediately recognized the grammatical structure of the sentence; 'Si'm' means "If I' and "mande'w" means "ask you." But what really got me  was the use of "ta", because the same phoneme is used in Kriolu (Portuguese Creole) in exactly the same way. But even more importantly, the way the pronouns are added to the words before them is also a feature of Kriolu. It shouldn't be that big of a stretch to think that these two languages share some grammatical similarities, but seeing it that way was startling, especially given that I haven't read anything that has pointed this out previously. It was a pretty cool discovery and something I plan on researching more. But then the BBJ hit at Caesars and voila! life is back to normal, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

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

When I Knew

"Raise! $250 to go." said the Dealer as the young kid stacked 10 green chips in front of him, the next two players quickly called and I leaned forward to look at my hand. The first card I peeled back was the four pointed Ace of Diamonds, my heartbeat quickened like a child approaching a plate of fresh cookies, I held my breath and slowly peeled the corner of the second card. A slight red curve told me it was a Heart and the solo bottom serif could only mean one thing, the Ace of Hearts. I fanned back through both cards and admired the two red Aces, the best starting hand in the game of Texas Hold'em. My heart was now a steel-toed boot trying to kick its way through the door of my chest, my brain spinning like the wheels of an exercise bike one minute into a workout. I was trying to decide how much to re-raise when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gino, the player who was next to act after me, slide his fingers down a stack of black chips and back up to the top, which in the language of poker tells meant he was about to re-raise the pot as soon as I acted. Seeing this changed my whole strategy, rather than me re-raising, I could now call and disguise the strength of my hand. I tossed in two $100 black chips and two $25 greens and held my breath. "Raise!! said Gino, as he cut out ten black chips, "$1000 to go" said the dealer. The other players quickly mucked their hands and all twelve eyes at the table turned to me, the last remaining player with a live hand. It was the moment I had been waiting for all night, all my life maybe, the moment I had hoped for when I first scouted out the table three hours earlier.


I had been playing $2-5 No Limit a game with a maximum $500 Buy-in, and winning about $1200 when the word hit the table that a big game, a really big game was about to start up on Table 6 of the High Limit section of the Borgata's basement Poker Room. After the big game had been going for about 45 minutes I decided to walk past it and check it out. They were playing $25-$50 No Limit Texas Hold'em, a game with a $5000 minimum Buy-in and no maximum Buy-in. Meaning a player could put as much money on the table as they choose. Games this big rarely went off at the Borgata unless there was a big tournament in town and there wasn't one going right now. As I passed the table I scanned the faces of the five players, four of them I knew, but there was a young guy, maybe 24-25 with a face like a male model and muscles that threatened the integrity of the seams of his tight white T-shirt, in Seat Four. I had never seen him before and judging by the way he was handling his chips he hadn't played a lot of poker. He had an easy 15k in chips messily stacked in front of him. I went over to the FloorPerson Pete and asked "Who's the kid in Seat Four?" "I don't know" said Pete, "He's killing the game right now though, supposedly he's the boyfriend of some young hot actress shooting a movie in NYC right now, maybe Charlize Theron or Scarlett Johansson." "He looks like he should be playing $1-2 NL, not $25-50 though."


I nodded and returned to watch the game, the other four players were Gino, a rich divorce lawyer from NYC, Frank the Tank, a regular Borgata player, Mr. Lee, another regular (who supposedly controlled the underground gambling in Chinatown) and Gil another rich Borgata regular. Of the four, only Frank was a winning player and Mr. Lee was infamous for his deep pockets and willingness to gamble it up on the green felt. It looked like the perfect situation for me to "take a shot" and try to win some big money. As I stood watching the game, it was clear there was plenty of action. It would cost me 5k of my 30k bankroll to get into the game, but I could easily win 5 or 10k in a game like this. it was a big gamble though, I could also easily lose 5k in a single hand, more money than I had ever lost in even a two week period. I took a deep breath and headed for my Safe Deposit box. I told myself "Let's do this." I had played some $10-25 NL before, but that game had a 5k max and I usually bought in short, for only a thousand dollars. This was going to be the biggest game I'd ever played in before, but it looked like a rare and really juicy opportunity. I got my box and removed 3 orange $1000 chips, knowing once I picked up my chips from the game I was in, I'd have the 5k necessary to buy in to the bigger game.


I took the Eight Seat so I could see everyone's faces and neatly stacked my chips. The game was just as I expected and after a short period of jittery nerves, I centered my breathing and calmed down. I picked up AK of Clubs and called a raise to $250, the Flop came King high with two clubs and I was in business. There were three of us in the hand, Mr Lee and the Kid, with $775 in the pot. Mr. Lee bet out $500, I called and the Kid folded, the Turn was a 3 of Diamonds and Mr. Lee bet $1250, I raised to 3k and he started to stare me down, then released his hand. My heart rattled like a Super Ball ricocheting around a rubber room. But stacking my new chips concealed the slight shake of my hands. Adrenaline surged into my brain like hot water into a clawfoot porcelain bathtub and I closed my eyes and enjoyed a delicious shiver of excitement. This, was what I had come for. The game moved on with me not playing very many hands, my strategy was very simple now, I was going to wait for one good chance to trap someone in a big pot and double up. Then the Kid announced his raise to $250.


"It's $750 for you to call, Pittsburgh" said the dealer, using the name I was known by throughout the poker rooms of Atlantic City, mostly because of my habit of always wearing something that represented a sports team from Pennsylvania's second largest city. I swallowed hard and counted out seven black chips and then two greens. I piled them into one stack like a black pole with a green cap and then just before sliding them forward, announced "I'm All-in." "What did he say?" asked Gino, "Did he say All-In?" The dealer nodded yes, "How much more?" Gino asked. I quickly counted out my remaining chips, "$6275" said the dealer. Gino looked back at his hand and said "I call." "Call!" repeated the dealer, but before I could table my hand Gino asked me "Do you have pocket Aces?" I said "I just raised you sixty-two hundred dollars, what else would I have?" He nodded and glumly flipped over his two Kings. The Flop came Jack, Jack, Seven, all black with two Clubs, the Turn was the Seven of Spades. With one more card to be dealt I now had a 95% chance of winning the more than 15k in the middle of the table. The dealer burned a card and then turned the River Card, it was the King of Hearts! The whole table gasped, Gino had hit a miracle King on the River to beat my two Aces. The dealer turned to me and I tossed in my now useless Aces face up, he quickly buried them in the Muck pile and after scooping my stack, began pushing Gino the pot.


I could see the mouths of the other players moving, but couldn't hear them, almost as if I were under water. The Dealer turned to ask me if I wanted to rebuy, but I couldn't hear a single thing he said. I sat there as stunned as if someone had just told me that my mother was really a Chinese acrobat come from the future to save humanity from the tyranny of giant people eating termites. I thought about re-buying and trying to get my 5k back, but that was sheer insanity. I couldn't afford another five thousand pound hit to the jaw. I nodded no, then got up and somehow made my way back to my room. To this day I still don't know what transpired on that 12 minute walk back to the Borgata's hotel tower. It was like I was walking through a lake of water fifteen thousand feet deep and the casino patrons were large fish parting quickly around me. I got to my room, unlocked the door and collapsed across my disheveled King Size bed. I couldn't feel my arms or legs, I could see them and move them, but there was no sensation. I felt like someone had tipped over a humongous bookshelf and 15k books had fallen on my head. I peeled off my clothes like labels off an empty bottle and threw them at the chair next to the bed. I had to be the single most unlucky person in the entire fucking universe, I thought. I knew the math, I was a 19-1 favorite before the last card. How unlucky would you be if you had a choice from twenty cups of Kool Aid and chose the one that was poisoned? Not even the most melancholy melody ever mouthed by Sade could soothe me at that moment. I had found the perfect game, got the perfect hand, in the perfect situation and gotten fucked like a Toy Poodle by a Great Dane in heat.


I lay there in the solid darkness, misery swirling around me like smoke from a busted muffler. How could anyone be so unlucky, I wondered. I had to be the single most unlucky person to ever grace the face of the earth. In the history of the earth, no doubt. And then I thought about a six year old boy, who was right now at home in his bed snoring contentedly dreaming of the latest video games. And you know, maybe I was unlucky in that hand, but I was lucky enough to be the one guy that that little kid called Dad. And I thought of the time that I almost fell of the roof of our three story apartment building while trying to retrieve a baseball and just caught the edge of the gutter and it held. And that time I was about to run out into the street after a football and slipped on a wet spot and just missed getting hit by a car I never saw until it was swooshing past me. And another time, and another came out of the mists of my memory to remind me that I'd had my share of good fortune too. And what poker player hasn't taken his share of bad beats? Maybe it was just my turn to get flattened by the poker gods like an empty milk carton headed for the Recycle Bin. I rolled over and closed my eyes.


The sharp sliver of daylight coming between the curtains pried my eyes open like a knife in the hands of a fisherwoman shucking clams. I rolled away from the light, yawned and stretched and then got hit with the memory of previous night's events like fifteen thousand pigeons shitting on me at once. I shook my head and then lay back and looked at the ceiling. My five thousand dollars was gone, long gone. but there was action right now downstairs on the tables and that meant I had a chance to grind it back, the same way I had come by it the first time. I hopped out of bed and slipped on my pants, my shirt and then my black Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. I glanced at the clock, there was just enough time for me to catch the Breakfast Buffet, then back up here for a quick shower and shave. Every person has a moment when they know they're doing the thing they were meant to do in life. I had just lost more money than I ever imagined in a single hand of poker, but I be damned if I was going to let that stop me from getting it in good again. I walked to the door and strode down the hall to the elevator, it might take me down, but it was going to bring me back up too.

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

THE DOM PERIGNON IN YOU

Been playing with this in different versions, this is the latest. Not totally sold on it yet.

Noses it
like a perfumed neck,
then runs a thumb
along the hips
of a snifter.
The tongue glistens
with a half sip,
cautious as
a first kiss,
a swallow
drifting on
the warmth
of an updraft.
You know a single malt
builds its case
in the forecastle
of the mouth.
You know too,
what whirls
in this glass
is a pool
with no bottom.
So you dream instead
the moon's finger
on an ankle
thin as a crystal flute,
imagine the
dark dictionary
of her tongue
or what's held
in the parentheses
of her pout.
You plan a plant
that winds
up the mountain range
of her spine,
But awake
in a blooming garden,
looking skyward
towards the day
your tongue
is a green vine
curling around the
bare brown
of her
fence posts.

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

bluer than I am

I'm trying to figure out what to do with this poem. It started out (and still is) a Quotilla, based on a Bill Withers tune. But it isn't quite working, I'm going to sit on it for a few, but may need to make it a B-Bop Solo


WHAT MAKES ME SEEM


Maybe because of
the soon sunlight, the
lateness of that last moon
of its lantern's smile
the wild light
hour joy lucent
makes (or could've made)
me almost
seem aquamarine
bluer than a cloudless noon
than an inner flame
I would burn like banished books
am yet not withered

Maybe a unicorn
the gray lair left
lateness of fences
of final leaps
the sweet and sour
hour of wrecking
makes melancholy rise
me a solitary eye
seem double visioned
bluer almost
than cyanese twins
I burn like a blueberry candle
am not quite pooled wax

Maybe maple syrup
the amber sorrow
lateness of the sap
of what drips, drains
the mouth of
hour not quite kiss
makes Bill bemoan
me like Mary, you
seem(ed) almost mine
bluer even
than green eggs, cracked
I now
am.

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

STALKING THE LION

I'm headed out of the Taj Mahal poker room on my way to the gift shop to get some powdered mini donuts when I run into T and his girl A who are about to check out. T has been owing me almost $500 for a couple of months now, but he's been running bad and doesn't have it. T is a brown skinned cat who is 42, but looks 32 and has the frenetic energy of an eight year old. He's basically grown up in the casinos where his parents worked and he knows everyone and everyone knows him. They make an interesting couple, he's black and twenty years older than her and they fight constantly. In fact, I've never met a couple that argue more about things that matter less. She is also insanely jealous, to the point where she will stop the car in the middle of the street and accuse him of having an affair with a random girl on the corner who happens to look at him a little too long. Which probably wouldn't be a problem, except for the fact that for the eight years I've known him, I've never known him to not be cheating on whomever he was with. He has a bright smile that reveals a chipped front tooth and a perpetual need to flirt with whatever woman who happens to wander into his view. Often with great success. Which sometimes leads to him trying to get me to cosign his lies bout where he was the night before while she was working. Which I never do, something that doesn't seem to stop him from asking. Despite the fact that he's a winning poker player, he stays broke, in part due to the Child Support he owes the three other women he has four kids with. His girl says hello and then looks straight down at the ground, so I know she must be broke too. Which is wild because she's one of the money making-est strippers in all of Atlantic City. She's a pretty South Jersey Italian chick who is so dark she could pass for Puerto Rican and is built like a Black woman; medium up top, thick from the waist down. She makes big cheese from all the guys, no matter their race, most nights she clears between $1200-$1800 in cash. Only problem is that when she gets off at 4am, she walks across the street to the casino and feeds the slots like they were a brood of starving piglets and she a milk swollen sow. She recently got evicted from her $1300 a month apartment despite the fact that she makes $200,000 in an average year. She's probably the second most degenerate gambler I've ever personally met, and although I believe in respecting women as equals, if you looked up the phrase 'dumb bitch' in the dictionary you'd find her picture there, in color. T doesn't have my money, but he does have a good tip. Word on the street is that The Lion will soon be back in town from Vegas and that he recently hit an internet poker tournament for 30k. That's good news since The Lion owes me money too, but the bad news is that he is the single most degenerate gambler I've ever known. If you were to walk into the Borgata or Taj Mahal poker rooms and tap any random regular on the shoulder, they'd probably have a crazy story starring the the Lion. But none as crazy as the ones I've personally witnessed.


Like the time back in the summer of 2005 when I'd just got back in town from a weekend in DC visiting my son and I was sliding down the escalator into the Borgata's old basement poker room and the Lion was going up the other way. His face lit up when he saw me and I knew right away he was broke and what he wanted. Which wasn't to borrow money, but rather have me stake him in a $1/2 No Limit Texas Hold'em game. The deal was simple I put up the $300 buy-in and in return got half the profits, (if he lost he'd need to recoup my investment before we could do business again.) I was always willing to stake the Lion because he was one of the most talented poker players in AC, capable of beating every form of poker, no matter the stakes. There are very few poker players who can win in both the small and big games, but the Lion could, in part because of his total disregard for the value of money. Despite his serious talent, he stayed broke because he always wanted to play in the highest game possible which violates the tenets of sound Bankroll Management which dictate that one should have at least ten buy-ins for whatever game they want to play regularly and more properly at least twenty buy-ins. The Lion would jump into games where he only had two or three buy-ins which meant as soon as he ran bad he got broke. It also didn't help that he only had one gear, which was super aggressive. One of the paradoxes of the Lion is that he doesn't care at all about his own money, but is very careful with the money of others. So he actually plays better when playing with someone else's money.



He hopped the escalator railing like a subway turnstile and was right behind me in no time. I asked him what was up and right away he started whining like a fine chardonnay about his bad luck. We cut to the chase and I put him in a 1/2 game for $300 and went to grind 2/5. About an hour later I strolled around to his table to check on him and Lo and behold he had grown our stake like a patch of mutant pumpkins from $300 to $1200. Most people would be ready to quit at this point, since they'd be due $450 from their share of the winnings ($1200 minus my original $300 leaves $900, which we split evenly), but the Lion aint most people and he pretty much will never leave a poker game unless it breaks or he's otherwise forced to. He said the game was still good, so I left him playing. One hour later I return and he's up to nearly $2000, I tell him it's about time to quit and he aint trying to hear it. You'd think that a guy who was flat broke a few hours ago would be trying to quit and put his $850 in his pocket, but nah. While I'm watching he loses a hand for $200 and that's it for me, I tell him to pick up right now. He tries to argue, but I give him my 'Daddy means business' face and he starts racking up the chips. When he finishes, I head to the Cashier's window, only he follows me and taps me on the shoulder. He wants to know if I'll take half of him in a 2/5 game for $500. I just won $750 with him and am pretty content, but he's insistent he's found a table he can crush. I figure even if he loses I'm still up $500, so I agree and he bounces off. Three hours later he's turned the Five Piece into $2700 and is raising everything that moves. I'm still near even in my game, but don't really care because he's doing so well. I give him the hook again and he resists again, but this time I'm deadly serious from Jump Street. We're both due $1100 in the 2/5 game and I'm trying to collect right now. He won't quit, so I push him aside and start racking up the chips, only the other players don't want to see the Action guy leave the game so they protest. Technically, I'm not even allowed to touch his chips (even though I put up the money) so I back off, but give him my Clint Eastwood glare. He racks up. I'm ready to go up to my room and watch some ESPN highlights, but now he wants to hit the $5/10 game (where the buy-in is $1000 max) and wants me to take half of him again. I say dude, you got $1850 of your own now, just take $300 and grind 1/2. But I might as well be speaking Mongolian. It's 5/10 or bust for him, I go check out the game and it looks decent, so I give him $500 and say I'm going to watch some TV. About once an hour I call down to check on his progress, which is minimal for four hours until he hits a big hand and triples up. I throw on my shoes and hat and head back down to the poker room because without me to yank him, he's never going to stop. I get there and he's psyched and doesn't want to hear anything about quitting, but he's got $2800 in front of him and half of it is mine and that half is rolling out right now whether he likes it or not. He's furious and accuses me of not trusting him, but I point out that one of us is always broke and the other one aint, because they know how and when to quit. His feelings are big-time hurt, but who cares? Give me my money. I get my $1400 and head to bed, while he pouts his way back to the 2/5 game. A few days go by and I don't see him on account of him playing at the Taj and me at the Borgata, but I hear he's tearing them up.



Saturday comes and the rumor is that the Lion has flipped that original $300 into more than 45k in the last few days, but I aint buying that because rumors are frequently wrong. I get paged in the poker room at Borgata and it's T, BG, and Mexican Carlos and they want me to come over to the Taj and talk to the Lion. There's a big 10k buy-in tournament on Monday at the Borg and they want the Lion to give me 10k to hold so he doesn't lose it before the tourney starts. I say OK and hop the Jitney to the Taj. The Jitney streaks through the streets of AC like it's running from the Klan, taking most corners on two wheels. I hang on and close my eyes like it's an amusement park ride. I get to the Taj and the Lion is sitting in front of a castle of black and purple chips playing the biggest game in the room, which is $300/600 Seven Card Stud, a game where a single hand could cost you 3k easy. I have a Rain Man like talent where I can eye a stack of chips and know how much there is and my brain is saying that he's got upwards of 35k in front of him. I ask him if it's true he's up to 45k and he shakes his head no, and pulls out a Nickel knot of hundreds ($5k) and two grey chips, which are also worth 5k a piece. Plus he says he knocked off about $3500 in debts, so all told he's sitting on more than 50k. I'm stunned. He's gone on runs of 15 or 20k before, but nothing like this. I ask him if he wants me to hold something and he nods, we decide to head back to the Borg and put the grey chips in my Safe Deposit box. Only he wants to eat first with the guys he's playing against. I say cool and even though I'm tired from playing all day I go play $1/2 to kill some time. One hour goes by and then two and still no Lion. I check the game, but the others aren't back either. Now I'm a nice guy and don't mind doing a friend a favor, but he can't just waste my time like this either. After about 15 more minutes I tell BG I'm out and they can catch me at the Borg in my room.


Well, I fall asleep watching the 3am Sportscenter and still haven't heard from the Lion. The next morning I get up and decide to run past the Taj real quick before hitting the Borgata Sunday Brunch Buffet and those scrumptious omelettes and biscuits. I hop a cab and get to the Taj around 9am and the sun is way too bright and the birds way too loud and the sky way too damn blue for me, but whatever. I enter near the poker room and look up and who do I see coming down the long hallway towards me, but BG and Mexican Carlos. They're walking as slow as pall bearers and not talking at all. And as soon as I read their body language, there's no need for words. They get halfway to me and it's clear, even though I don't want to believe it. I look at BG, then look at Mexican Carlos, but neither says a word and they both look like their grandmothers got run over and killed while trying to save their favorite dog, who then turned around and got hit by a bus that proceeded to crash while carrying their only cousin, who was thrown from the bus and died too. Or maybe even sadder. I say "No", but they just nod yes. I say how much and Mexican Carlos says "The whole bowl of guacamole." The whole 50k, I ask? They say yes. Say he never left the 300/600 game and ran bad and kept raising as his stack got lower and lower. Then he went out on the casino floor and donked off the last 10k playing Blackjack at $500 a hand, where he evidently never won a single hand. They say he's in the room with the lights out and curtains drawn and three pizzas from Room Service. And what else is there for me to do, but go back to the Borgata and dunk some buttered biscuits in real maple syrup and thank god for a little discipline.


Now, The Lion is headed back to AC after a few years in Vegas. I head to the poker room to check out the games and I hear "Phone call for Pittsburgh on line one". I pick up the House phone. If the Lion still has some of the 30k he just won, he'll be laughing and joking, but if not he'll be whining like a two week old puppy. I punch the first button, say Hello and get greeted with a sound like a two year old who just dropped his Sippy cup . . .



Things I say when I'm not saying I love you.

There is a Joker in the deck,
that's wild about our (pork-free) futures.

It has a mouth with the smile,
of a Gypsy Queen I once caught dragging.

She wore your rhyming royal dress
so tightly her tattoos bled through.

Why didn't my dumb thumbs oppose this?

I'm dealt two Hallmarked cards and lower them,
like a kind of light naked bulbs screw in.

We've lost both our hot hands,
but maybe now we'll grasp the gist of Hold'em.


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

Summer 2012 Senryu/Haiku

These days most of my
exercise comes from pushing
my luck.

July afternoon-
eating mango from the
bottom of her cup

She tried to play me
like my First Name was Spanish-
Last Name: Guitar


Harriet Tubman-
the original
Ride or Die chick.

Independence Day

The Van Gogh in You

Steeps ears in starlight,
fills with freed night,
bathes in dopamine until dawn.
It knits breath
from whispers it collects,
sitting like a sunflower in a corner.
Invisible by day and radiant by night,
it has a flame
that flamingoes in all seasons.
It scars like the rough
of old men's hands,
obscures like
the smoke of opinion,
a cloud of ash
floating from a jagged cone.
When you press your ear to your heart,
there is no note of any night.
And yet it calls you nightly,
the possible oracle of an impossible song.
But song is only the genes of genius.
Your ear gorges itself
on many frequencies.
Your fingers caressing
whatever key depresses.
The lungs drunk themselves
on variant verses.
The brain guzzles a Coda.
It ripples your sea
silent as a breeze
curling and peaking
into pike points.
Your ear tangos with tangents,
scales the sails of silence
and wonders the waves
until it finds
the secret languid of number,
the liquid of Sign.

On the First of July I saw a Tweet from the poet Bassey Ikpi about one of her upcoming projects called The Siwe Project which was declaring July Second "No Shame Day" to help reduce the stigma around mental illness in the global black community. I sent her a message and asked how I could help, she replied and asked me to say something, anything really that could help to get people to begin to reduce the stigma. I knew right away that there was one thing I could definitely do, which was continue what I started here a month ago with my "Making a List" post, only this time doing it on Facebook. Although it seems like a natural progression, outing myself as a sufferer of OCPD on Facebook is a much bigger deal than posting it here. I have 1,290 Friends on FB, there are only 18 followers of my blog. About 50 members of my family are Friends of mine on FB, maybe two or three read this blog or even know it exists. But in the end, it had to be done. I won't lie, it was easy to decide to do it and much harder to actually hit the 'Post' button after I had written the Status Update. As soon as I hit the button, I regretted it, but it was too late. Then a sense of relief came over me, no matter what the outcome, it was done. In some ways I felt like a Knight who had just climbed out of a suit of rusty armor. There was no more reason to hide. I sent a Tweet to Bassey that said "Whew. I just outed myself on FB. If you were here I'd kiss you through my tears. 30 years in the crazy closet. Free now". The truth is that although I have known for a long time that I had a 'Personality Disorder' I never thought of myself as being mentally ill. Because, you know, those folk are crazy and I aint crazy. Weird, quirky, idiosyncratic-Yes, yes and yes. But crazy? Hell Naw, not the kid. But the facts are the facts and 'Personality Disorders' are mental illnesses whether I liked it or not. Whether I liked the cut of the suit or not, the truth was that it fit me. Thus ended a two year journey that started with me trying to get better at communicating with a certain woman by trying to figure out why I have always had so much trouble communicating with people (mostly women) who are primarily indirect communicators. I always thought it was because I was bad at reading faces, but one night I took an online test that measures one's ability to read facial expressions. I stared and stared at the first face, almost completely bewildered, with no real clue. Then I decided to just click on the first thing that popped in my head. I did that for all the pictures and to my surprise I scored a 98%. I have always scored really high on tests of all types, but this result stunned me, so much in fact that I refused to believe it. I took the test again and to my relief it gave me a different set of faces to judge. But the end result was the same, 96% correct. So, if I was actually good at reading faces, why did I have so much trouble dealing with people who communicate using neutral language and relying on facial expressions and voice tone to make up the difference? The answer was simple, that form of communication felt less certain to me (given that it involves more interpretation) and in my quest for super accurate (perfect?) communication I relied on my superior use of language to communicate in a hyper-literal fashion. The need for perfection is a hallmark of OCPD, but could it be true that that was the problem? Searching for the answer to that question had gotten me started. By the time that I accepted that my OCPD was affecting my ability to communicate with her and others, I began to wonder what else it had affected and how pervasive it really was. The answer was tough to bear, my attitude that I had minimized my Personality Disorder was actually making things much, much worse, because it had blinded me to how pervasive my illness really was and in how many ways it affected me. It took me the better part of two years to come to these conclusions, but in my slow-ass walking manner I eventually got there.

I spent most of the Fourth of July outside in 99 degree heat working over a blazing hot grill. Chicken, salmon, ribeyes, mushrooms, green peppers, onions all sizzling in front of me. Hardwood smoke pouring out the top of the grill like a locomotive in a hurry to get where it already was. The grill was shaded by a tree, so I wasn't in the direct sunlight, but it was crazy humid as Julys in the DMV always are. I was surrounded by friends, my son was running around squirting other kids with a garden hose and I was (quietly) celebrating my freedom, doing one of the things I love most. There are two things that really irk me about Atlantic City; there's no bookstore in the city for me to hang out in; and there's nowhere for me to grill. I've asked friends, even offered to buy the food or even a Weber grill. But they don't get it, they're thinking hot dogs and burgers. All I need is one shot to convert them to the Cult of The Right Reverend Renegade, but that shot hasn't come yet. So, I go back to the DMV, where my friends know the good Gospel. And there I was, outside, sweat trickling down the back of my spine, happy as hell. Grilling and chilling. I'm sure the neighbors looked out their windows and thought "That dude must be crazy to be out there in all that heat, grilling." They were right too. But there I was for the first Fourth in a really long time, truly Free.

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

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)

Who's Your Daddy? (Part 2)

. . . Shaky Steve had told me that SH was back in rehab, this time for 6 months. And even though I know that heroin is a really, really tough drug to kick (second only to Crack Cocaine) I'm hoping that this time he can shake free for good, because he almost did last time. Well, not the last time he was in rehab, but last time he got clean for an extended period. Which was back in 2004 when he was fresh out of prison out West and back in AC for the first time in a long while. A Jewish kid from the Lower East Side of New York City who came of age in the 50s when Jazz was hitting its artistic prime and heroin was the 'cool' drug of choice, he was a teenager sneaking into joints like The Five Spot to see Thelonious Monk or Birdland to see Miles or John Coltrane. And after college he becomes a documentary filmmaker in Cali who marries and has a baby girl. And Cali is (at that time) the only state besides Nevada where poker is legal and so he starts playing (and sometimes cheating) in the clubs there with a bunch of guys (like David Sklansky) who would go on to become legends. But heroin is a heavy monkey to carry on your back and eventually his life collapses and he finds himself in Vegas cheating the slot machines to feed his habit. And he's good, real good at that, so good he hires hookers during the day to act as his lookouts while he 'walks' the reels of the machines into position to deliver jackpots. And he's too good and eventually the casinos make it a priority to nab him and he should have quit, but hubris is a MFer. So he gets busted and does 8 years in the State Pen, which isn't all bad because it forces him to get clean and gives him plenty of time to read, which he had always done plenty of anyway.

So now he's chilling on a bench on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City with some cats he knows from the old days and one of them mentions that No Limit Hold'em is making a comeback and is now being spread in AC. Which perks his ears up because he played in the legendary game at The Mayfair back in the day and held his own and so he goes into the Tropicana Casino to investigate and finds it's all true. They're spreading NL Hold'em, although with a cap on the amount you can buy in for and who ever heard of that? But he's smart enough to realize that the casinos are doing that to slow the rate at which the players go broke (because suckers going broke too fast is what killed the game in the 70s). He's only got $40 to his name, but he bums $20 from three people and Bam! he's in action. And compared to all the young fools who are mostly playing the game for the first time, he's an expert and before the week is out he's up a grand and has rented a little room in the Chelsea neighborhood of AC. He puts in 15 and 18 hour days grinding in these 1/2 NL games and runs good, so good that within a year's time he's banked 50k and has moved to a condo in Brigantine with the Bay as a backyard. And somewhere in there he switches to the wild and crazy games at Caesar's which is where our paths cross on the green felt of a 2/5 NL table. I know right away he's a grinder, but just in case my boy WP comes over from another table to tell me not to give the old guy any action whatsoever without the stone cold nuts. And I'm running the table raising lots of hands and running my mouth raising lots of salient facts and stats about the upcoming NFL season, when he stops me and asks me if I know the etymology of one of the words I just used. And I say sure and run it down and now, it's on. He says the word came into English from Spanish and I say it came in from Portuguese. He asks me if I'm sure and really, when have I never been not sure? I might be wrong, but I aint uncertain. I am after all (unbeknownst to him) The Right Reverend DJ motherfucking Renegade. So he disagrees and asks me if I want to bet, and I know he's trying to hustle me, but he doesn't know that I've been reading dictionaries since 1968 when I first read The Autobiography of Malcolm X and learned that that was how Malcolm educated himself in prison. So we clarify the terms and I insist on using a Merriam-Webster's Unabridged dictionary to settle the bet and he mentions he has one on his dining room table. So, when we finish playing, me, him and WP go over to his condo to settle the bet. Which I win of course, but I look around and see he's got books everywhere and we start kicking it. WP mentions that I write poems and SH asks me who I read and we discuss the finer points of Komunyakaa and Ginsburg and Wallace Stevens and his favorite poet, John Ashbery (who's work I hate, but whatever). Then we move on to Jazz and he regales us with tales of Monk and Miles and Coltrane from back in the day. And I've been looking for somebody to talk about more than just poker or math or sports and so has he and before you know it, we're fast friends. And he's almost 20 years older than me, almost the same age Gaston Neal would be if he were still alive and fills a hole in my life that's been gaping since Gaston passed. 

And soon he's playing 5/10 NL at the Borgata everyday with a 100k+ bankroll and inviting a small group of grinders over for holidays and big sporting events. Whenever we see each other one of us quotes a line from Shakespeare and the other one has to name the play or poem that it comes from, something that keeps us both sharp and thinking about more than just how to fleece the fish in our poker games. Somewhere along the line we figure out that we both know K, a fine Dominican chick who plays 1/2 NL that I met in the Taj Mahal casino one day playing poker. Like a lot of poker players I can size people up pretty quickly and from the word go, she struck me as a con artist, because her smile was too easy and was way more mouth than eyes. And the primary tool of a con artist is a (too easy) smile. When I first met her, she told me she was in Real Estate and owned a house in Brigantine, only now I come to find out that she's a wannabe grinder who sleeps on SH's couch every night. And who except pathological liars tells these kind of grandiose lies for no reason? He asks me what I think about her play and I tell him IMO she's not a winning player and I can tell by his face that he's not trying to hear that. He tells me she's a good kid and he's helping her work on her game and get better. And somewhere in there it dawns on me that he's putting her in games (loaning her money to play). But it's whatever and life is cool and then I start running bad and can't win no matter how good I get my money in. And SH is there for me, whether it's advice or a listening ear or a loan to help keep me in action and I introduce him to some books by a few pretty cool poets like Jericho Brown and Terrance Hayes and Sean Thomas Dougherty and Reginald Dwayne Betts and Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon that he hasn't really heard of. Word around town is that K is now into SH for more than 3k and is steadily losing, but hey he's grown and can loan his money to whomever he wants. And some cats think he's hitting it, and some think she's fleecing him, and I ask him about it, but he just says she's a good kid and will pay him back when she starts winning and really it's just a Father/ Daughter kind of thing. I know how bad he feels about being locked up and strung out for most of his real daughter's childhood, so that makes sense. Then the Showboat's Bad Beat Jackpot gets real high and K is on the table when it hits and gets over 9k. And she skips back to Brigantine and pays him the whole thing and we're hanging out at the Borg when he comes strutting in and telling us how wrong we were for doubting her and watch she's gonna start winning now that she has a decent bankroll. And when he walks away, JS shakes his head and says her paying him off is the worst thing that could've happened and I'm thinking that JS is one cold cynical bastard, but he explains that since SH trusts her so much now she's gonna get him for a number that makes 3k look like chump change. I honestly don't know, I don't trust her as far as I can spit her and never thought she'd square him up the first time. But I know JS has never been wrong on a read before, like that time he was playing 2/5 and a woman I know pretty well was sitting behind her boyfriend. The next day JS tells me that the woman is putting her boyfriend in and I say he's crazy she'd never do that and he just laughs and shakes his head. Then a few days later the boyfriend is playing and busts out and is hanging around and JS says he's waiting for her to get off, so he can get more money to play and I say no way. JS says she'll get off and dude will take her home and knock it off and be back playing in two hours, unless his game is really tight, in which case he'll be back within 45 minutes of her getting off of work. So we bet 50$ and I tell him I'll double it if dude is back before an hour and I'm thinking this is the easiest $50 I'll make all week, only she gets off and 35 minutes later dude is pimping in and pulling up a chair to a 1/2 table. And I'm playing and feel a tap on my shoulder and it's JS with his hand out and I flip him a black chip and he kisses it and says "You're a smart kid Pittsburgh, but you gotta bet with your head, not your heart" And what can I do, but tip my hat to him? Meanwhile, sure enough after a couple of months of losing K's back in SH's pocket and after a few more months the number is north of 3k and climbing like a tropical vine. 

Then the Caesar's BBJ starts approaching 500k and we're all over there trying to hit it and one day  I'm waiting for some moron to call a giant bet on the River (although the whole table knows the bettor has the Nuts) when I see K on the table in front of me and her eyes light up like the night before Christmas, I mean sweeter than a box of Twinkies and I turn to see who she's looking at and it's AD, a middle-aged Persian woman who is a Floor Person at Caesar's. And AD blushes and smiles and turns away and I know that look (because I've put it on a few women's faces) and I realize that not only are they an item, but K must have made AD hit all the high notes in the aria because AD beams every time she passes her table. And the next thing you know K is playing 2/5 after months of not being able to beat the smaller, easier 1/2 games and even Helen Keller can see that she's getting new money from somewhere. I see SH and I say, hey it looks like your girl is macking AD and he says they're just friends and maybe AD loaned her a buy-in or something, but it's no big deal. And I say SH, let's be real here, AD is a divorcee on the wrong side of 50 from a strict Muslim culture who might have never had a man make her elevator go to the top floor in her whole life, let alone hold her and talk to her when he finished. And I've long known that K likes flipping straight girls (I aint mad at her, I love watching her flirt, TBH). Do the math I say, K puts her tongue on the right button and AD's ATM is gonna start shooting out bills like fireworks on the Fourth of July. But he says it aint like that, she's a good kid who means well and more of a daughter to him almost than his real daughter. I roll my eyes and roll out, but it's clear to me that SH has got a pretty big blind spot where K is concerned, but whatever, he's streetwise enough that he should be alright. Then I tell WP about what I saw with K and AD and he tells me he loaned K $1500 and I'm like "Are you serious?" He says he's not too worried, she payed SH back and I'm like dude she's in his pockets real deep now and he nods and says she told him it's almost 10K. And I'm like WTF?? and you still loaned her cheese? And he's like yeah, I say well, you better hope you can get her to "work it off" because she aint paying you back. But WP aint no dummy either, so he corners K after she has a big win and reads her the Riot Act and she knocks a little off the top of what she owes him. So now K is playing 2/5 eveyday only she can't beat the game because she thinks every dude is trying to bluff her and she never folds, especially not to the big bets. But she doesn't seem to be having any problems buying back in. Then one night, one of AD's coworkers asks me what I think of K and I say why? And she tells me that she thinks something isn't right about their relationship and she tried to talk to AD about it, but AD turned on her and told her to mind her own business. I say straight up, if AD is getting macked as good as I think she is, then she isn't going to want to listen to anybody who says anything bad about K, because as far as she's concerned K is the best thing that's ever happened to her. And her friend looks like she wants to cry and asks what she can do and I say nothing, you can't save someone from themselves, all you can do is what you did, tell them the truth and hope they'll be able to hear it at some point. And now K is getting crushed everyday and still not fazed by it and AD is floating around the room like she's wearing levitation shoes. But she aint made out of money and after a few months (when the thrill is wearing off a little) the feces hits the fan. AD tells K maybe she should go back to 1/2 and K aint trying to hear that and she's in AD's purse real deep now, past 7k and how else can she make enough to pay her back if she starts playing smaller? The truest test of whether someone's getting macked is what happens when they cut off the money and the gifts. AD cuts her back a little and K isn't happy about it at all. Well, push comes to shove and K quits her and AD is walking around looking like she got her heart cut out with a rusty pair of paper scissors. The truth is that K will probably never be a winning player because like most con artists she doesn't have the patience that it takes to win at poker in the long run. Sure she can hit some quick scores, but it's all about the short term for her.  Poker is a long grind and she's more about hitting and quitting and moving on to the next victim. And after about a month AD quits her job and leaves Atlantic City. And I run into SH and he tells me K called him and said she had to go back to Florida because her father is sick and I'm thinking she aint coming back no time soon, but SH says she'll be back. In the meantime SH is running bad in the 5/10 game and feeling lonely and depressed, because it seems like we're all running bad at the same time. 

And I come over one day to help him with his computer and who do I see sleeping on his couch, but QH a real pretty Vietnamese chick was has a reputation around the poker room for being a degenerate Blackjack player and a losing poker player and a chip hoe (albeit a very expensive one). And SH tells me she's been down on her luck lately and he's just helping her out a little and in my head I'm saying here we go again. Only it's worse than I even know because he's putting her in tournaments every day, plus putting her in the cash games. And a week later he asks me what I think of her and I say without hesitation "She's a chip hoe, a very fine, very expensive chip hoe, but she'll bang anybody for a big enough Buy-In." And he says, hey nobody's perfect but that I'm being too hard on her. And what can I say that he'll be able to hear? Nothing. So, for once in my life I shut the fuck up and save myself some sentences. And I've got to give it to QH, she's real fucking good at what she does, calling him Daddy and doting on him like an ideal daughter. And what sixty year old man wouldn't want that kind of attention from a pretty young girl? Only SH is losing now and his bankroll is south of 70k and falling like heavy snow. And we all try to warn him, WP and JS and others, but it's like we're speaking Klingon, and JS says "Dude, at least tell us you're pulling her hair while hitting it from the back" but SH tells us we've got it all wrong with her, she's a good kid who just needs a little guidance. Six months go by and I'm coming over one day to kick it for a few and I overhear him and her through the door. And maybe I should've knocked and interrupted them, but I don't, I stand there and listen through the door. And he's telling her he's gonna have to just limit her to tournaments now because they're past 35k and she's not winning, but he has faith in her that she'll hit something soon. And I just back away and walk across the bridge from Brigantine to Harrahs in a light rain wondering how a guy that erudite and street smart could get into a hole that deep. But I know too, that if someone is in a relationship, any kind of relationship that validates them on a deep level they will put up with all types of nonsense and maybe even think it's nothing but an even trade, because they're getting something they consider invaluable in return. I get to the Poker Room and see WP and he tells me he's been trying to get SH to play a little lower for a while to preserve his bankroll, but that SH won't even consider it and then that weekend the unthinkable happens. Word gets out that SH was playing and evidently crunching Roxies like they were Penny Candy and went on tilt and donked off 20k in one 39 hour session. They said he was delirious and kept buying back in for 1k and shipping it with Top Pair at the slightest provocation, until finally a guy who knows him grabbed him and pulled him off the game and drove him home, which pissed off the entire table. I see SH a few days later and he doesn't even remember what happened and I ask him if it's true about the Roxies and he looks down and starts mumbling. And I'm like dude, Roxies are opiates and mad addictive and if you used to have a heroin problem, they're super evil. And he nods and says he'll quit taking them, he only had them because his back was acting up and QH copped a few from a friend for him to relieve the pain. And we both know he's lying and I call him on it and he says he's gonna quit no matter what. And I tell him QH is an anchor that's going to drag him straight to the bottom of the Marianas Trench, but he just tells me I'm too hard on her, that's not her fault, she just never had a father in her life, but he's grown and should know better.

Then a week later JS tells me he saw SH in the RaceBook talking to a notorious Mob loan shark and I'm legit scared, only SH tells me the guy is an old friend and he just needs a little cushion so he can play comfortably. But he's still putting QH in every day and she's still losing, because even if she wins in the poker room, she goes out and dumps it on the Blackjack tables. I know things are really bad when a week later SH asks me for $500 I owe him, something he's never done. I have sterling credit and pay everybody as soon as I can whenever I owe, so folk don't generally ask me for their money because they know if I've got it, I'll find them and square them up. But by the look on his face I know he needs it, so even though I'm only holding $800 I pay him off. He apologizes and tells me he's a month behind on his rent and is wondering how far he can get behind before they can evict him. I tell him he needs to get rid of QH, but he aint trying to hear that, he tells me he'll start winning and it'll all be OK. Later on I see JS and he tells me that SH is done, his goose is cooked, it's only a matter of time, because he won't listen to nobody. And yeah, JS is a cold blooded lizard, but when was he ever wrong? And the next thing I know SH is playing 2/5 at the Taj because he has too much pride to play smaller at the Borgata, but he's losing real bad now smells like sharkbait at the table and is hanging out in the Racebook to boot which can't be good. And the kicker comes when one day QH hits a Borgata tournament for 35k and we go get SH and tell him to go over to the Borgata and get his money and he says don't worry, she's a good kid, she'll find me, only two days go by and she doesn't, so we go over there and she's playing 5/10 and I tell her SH needs to talk to her and she gives me the evilest look since Eve told Adam she bit the apple and to make a longstory short she gives SH some BS and 3k and says it's the best she can do. And the next time I see SH he's playing 1/2 and falling asleep at the table and then I realize he's nodding and I hope against hope it isn't what I think it is, but sure enough his right hand slides up his left arm and slowly, slowly starts scratching. And if you've never been around heroin addicts that might not mean anything to you, but it seems like all of my daddies have pushed a hypodermic plunger and I know what color this scene in the movie fades to. I go back to my seat and pull out my Shure E-535 earphones, spark up my iPod til the silky smoke of Sade's voice rises and curls around my head, asking, "Is it a crime, that I still love you . . . ?"

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

Who's Your Daddy? (Part 1)

Last weekend Phish played Bader Field in Atlantic City for three days, which meant pretty much every hotel room in the city was either booked or going for an extra exorbitant rate. So, like the speaker in my poem 'The Bukowski in You,' on the morning of Father's Day I found myself in a $49 Motel room way out on Route 30. Now before you even get started let me make it perfectly clear that I don't give a fuck about Father's Day and never have really. It's a fake ass Hallmark holiday invented to separate sappy fools from their money. I'll say "Happy Father's Day" to cats I know are dads because it might mean something to them, but it makes me no real difference. I have a son and I know he loves me, I see evidence of that love every time we're together, so just like I don't need anyone to remind me that I'm 6'4" one special day a year, I don't need anyone to remind me that my son loves me. Like most kids, he goes through the motions on these days and sends me an email or this year a text message. And I'm good with that. But then Reuben Jackson (a fine and criminally under known poet) posts the video for Luther's "Dance With My Father Again" on his FaceBook Page and I know right away that as much as I love that song, I can't watch it because it always makes me cry. If you've read any reasonable amount of my poems you know I've got Daddy issues from my (shall we say 'difficult') relationship with my Father. From 'El Magnifico' to 'Saturday Poem' to 'Father, Son and the Wholly Ghost' it's all there in the work. Really it's just another form of unrequited desire, the desire to be loved by my father the way I saw other kids loved by theirs. But he's gone now, ashes spread onto the North Shore of the Allegheny River near downtown Pittsburgh. So I "Like" the video, but don't watch it. And then my iPod Touch starts flashing and telling me I missed a call and I check it out and it's from my son. Who has never called me on Father's Day ever, (mostly because I don't have a phone). So, I call him back and we chat and I miss him and he misses me and really wants to know when I'm coming to see him only I can't say exactly, it depends on how I run during the week if I can afford to miss the big money on the weekend to go to DC. Which I used to do, every weekend, until the economy went into the tank and I ran bad and lost a huge chunk of my bankroll. But we digress. And he starts getting emotional which means like most 12 year old boys he shuts down and says he has to go and I thank him for calling and let him go. And wonder if I'm starting to turn into my Father, which would be really, really fucked up. But then I look up and ESPN is showing clips of sports related to Father's Day and before I can avert my gaze there's Derek Redmond in the blue and white of Great Britain coming out of the Starting Gate to run the 400 meters where he's a contender to win a gold medal. And I saw this race live on TV when it happened, so I know what's coming, and even though Jesus, Allah and Buddha know I really don't need to see this right now, it doesn't matter sometimes, does it? And although I prefer that he not, just this once, Redmond rounds the first turn and then tears his hamstring, and by 'tears' I mean completely shreds, which means he falls down on the track like someone just shot him in the back of his leg and kneels in an incalculable amount of pain until the track officials come over to see if he needs medical assistance. Only what happens next is one of those amazing moments that can make it almost impossible to breathe when you see it. Redmond has spent the last four years of his life training for this race and no, he can't win it, the others are 50 meters ahead and disappearing rapidly, but he'll be damned if he's going to let a minor detail like a completely torn hamstring stop him from finishing his journey. So he pops up on one leg and starts hopping around the track like the most courageous kangaroo you've ever seen and the Olympic officials try to stop him, but he pushes them away and keeps hopping because there's still 300 meters to go. And all of this is enough to make even the most shriveled cynical bastard believe in something, but then the unthinkable happens. Redmond's dad jumps the railing from the stands and runs out onto the track and embraces his son, who puts his arm around him and together they walk the remaining distance to the finish line. And yeah, his dad helping him instantly disqualifies him, but really, who cares? And it's all a bit much and maybe just once in my life I would have liked for something like that to have happened to me and my dad and suddenly the city opens all the hydrants at once, or the Hoover Dam breaks or a surprise summer thunderstorm dumps several inches of torrential rain. I'm not going to sit here and say I curled up in a fetal ball and howled like a hurricane, (but I won't deny it either). And when I finished wiping all the snot out of my mustache, I cheered myself up by thinking about Terrance Hayes' poem about all of his daddies which made me think of all the other older guys who have been surrogate father figures in my life the last 20 years, like Gaston Neal and Cornbread James and S.H. And I remember that . . . (to be continued)

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

Out of the Foundry

The other day I was checking in to the Borgata Casino and I found a $100 bill on the ground next to my foot. I took my time, but I bent down and picked it up. That was my third time finding money or chips in a casino. I have lost so many things at the Borgata that the security guards at the Lost and Found know me by name. I've lost Tempur Pedic pillows and contact lenses, iPods and Steelers jackets, even lost my Passport once. When I went to claim it, the guard asked me for ID, he didn't appear to be joking either. Almost all of the things I lost turned up, (except that pillow) but it didn't much matter as I'm not generally attached to material things, unless I'm obsessed with them, like I was with Tombo Super Pens for about 15 years. Until I lost my last one on the Jitney. The only thing I've ever lost that I regret not getting back was an opportunity. There was this telemarketer that called my house one night about 25 years ago while I was watching a baseball game. I gave her my usual telemarketer treatment, which is to respond with random non-sequiturs and assorted lines of poetry. They'd ask if I was interested in Time-Life's new books on the Viet Nam War and I'd say it all depends on how many pictures of purple giraffes there were on their desk, when they respond in confusion (which they usually did) I'd recite some line from Shakespeare or Gwendolyn Brooks or one of my own poems and after a few exchanges like this they would inevitably give up in frustration and let me go back to whatever I was doing. But one night this woman wasn't fazed, she asked was I interested, I told her I'd have to ask the green dwarf at the end of the hall, she told me to hurry up because she had to pee, when she asked me what he said, I replied "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun," she asked me if his hair was black wires, when I said "Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight", she told me not to go gently into that good night. At some point we both busted out laughing, it turned out that she was pretty well read and very, very quick. She had met her sales quota for the night, but she had to stay on the phone for another 40 minutes to look busy, so we talked, for an hour. The next night she called me back around the same time and we kicked it, this went on for about 2 months and eventually we agreed to meet. She lived and worked outside of Baltimore and as it turned out worked with some guys who knew of me (I was a pretty well known DJ at the time), she decided to come spend a weekend and I sent her a train ticket. On the last night before she was to come, at the end of our usual conversation I asked her to put one of the guys she worked with on the phone and I asked him what she looked like, he repeated the question out loud. Stupid, stupid poet. She snatched the phone out of his hand and started screaming at me "I can't believe you did that, I was all prepared to love you, no matter what, I was all prepared to love you. I thought you were different, but you're just like the rest of them" I tried to make amends, but she wasn't having it. As I found out later, she was drop dead gorgeous and for her whole life men had judged her and valued her based on her looks, I on the other hand had never seen her and yet clearly dug her based on who she was. Until I asked that question. She never came. I found out years later that my cousin Kevin was a mutual friend of the guys she worked with and that she had married the dude I had asked the question to. I always wonder what my life would have been like had I not suffered that one moment of insecurity (well, stupidity and insecurity combined). Paradise Lost? Perhaps. it took me a long time to get past that, to find some peace with what I'd done. Over the years I've found many, many things that I still have, one of them is a medallion in the shape of Africa I found on the subway in DC, another is a sense of myself as a survivor, an understanding that whatever happens can be a lesson. I also try to find (and celebrate) beauty everywhere I can, whether it be architecture, dance, music, sculpture, naked super models wearing only body paint, whatever. Aren't we all just the sum of all the things that we find? I am obviously very sensitive to beauty in language and listen for poetry in everyday speech, everywhere I go. I also look for it in everything I read, and sometimes I even find it. I give myself a writing (well, really revising) exercise, where I look for 'found poems' in everything I read. The rules are simple, you take an original text and can only delete words, you can't add anything, although you can change the ending of a word to keep it grammatically correct. Sometimes I post these poems here on my blog like this one, which caught my attention because to me 'Bertholletia' sounds like one of those old time southern women's names. I could just see Bertholletia in a fancy hat, fanning herself in church on Sunday while the preacher railed against the latest wickedness. I often will make poems out of my friends Facebook postings and leave them in the Comments. Every once in a while the poems I find are even worth keeping. If nothing else it's a great exercise to keep one's revision skills sharp. If you teach kids or beginning writers this is a great exercise to get them to revise, since they often don't think that their own poems are in need of any such thing. Here then is the latest poem (title is link to the source material) that I've found.

Found Poem


Throughout
collected stones
and crystals,
black onyx.
Between Goth and Grunge,
the color of the stone
appealed. Black onyx,
the devil’s stone.
Healing and
defensive properties,
but also
sexual impulse.
I equated
to an impulse.
In a religious household,
you wake up and pray,
pray about the bathwater
before you bathe.
Pray the water clean.
my onyx wasn’t working,
I buried it
beneath an aspen tree.
Beneath the borrowed
full moon,
for a full week,
to neutralize
and cleanse it.
I buried the devil,
and then
I dug him.

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

Using the Muse

There's a wee bit of controversy in England over a recent proposal by Education Secretary  Michael Gove to make the memorization and recital of poems a mandatory part of an overhaul of Elementary school education. No, seriously. There are actually people who are against this for various reasons, some are against 'rote learning' and others think it will be humiliating for the kids. Never mind the fact that memorizing a poem is very different from memorizing facts or figures, or that fear of public speaking is the most common fear (and public recitals can help one to overcome this), studies show conclusively that people who memorize poems are 57% sexier to the opposite sex. OK, maybe they don't, but they just ought to. For real? Is this where we are as a civilization? Learning poems by Shakespeare, Milton, Gwendolyn Brooks, or Langston Hughes is a bad thing? Where people are against having kids memorize poems? Despite the fact that studies actually do show that memorization improves ones working memory and that leads to higher fluid intelligence and greater problem solving skills? And that gains made in this area by small children tend to stay with them throughout life? (Yes, I'm saying that having kids memorize poems makes them smarter, in a quantifiable way) Not to mention giving them a greater appreciation for good writing? And significantly improving their cultural literacy? This article in Salon looks at the issue and sheds some light (and reason) on the subject. When I was teaching creative writing I made it a point to have my students learn at least one poem that they didn't write, by heart. Not just because I wanted them to know a poem, but because the best way to really dig a poem is to learn it inside and out. Not to mention that you can't be a great writer without exposure to great literature (and this is true of all art forms) and the more exposure the better. The more we learn about the ways we learn, the more we learn that this is true. A poem known by heart can also work as a litany, or prayer, something you swing like a sword to ward off stress or even to spark a moment of meditation. I learned by accident that reciting "Love Song" by Henry Dumas helped me to deal with awkward post-coital silence, and made women fondly remember me years later as "that goofy guy who was clumsy at sex but recited a really lovely poem for me and made my day", not that I learned it for that reason. You'd be amazed at how many situations can be made better by just adding a recited poem, is a panhandler accosting you on the street? No problem, hit them with a few lines of Emily Dickinson [I heard a fly buzz when I died . . . ], is a paranoid schizo ranting at you on the subway? Try some Dylan Thomas [Do not go gently into that good night], awkward moment on a date? Shakespeare to the rescue [Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?] Can't remember the play in the huddle? Try some Claude McKay [If we must die . . . ] Kid need some advice? Gwendolyn Brooks [We real cool]. I guarantee you, it works every time, mostly. The truth is that participation in various art forms, whatever the art form, makes us all not only smarter, but gives us a greater appreciation for beauty and therefore for life itself. And that can't possibly be a bad thing. So help make the world a better place, learn a poem by heart today, it doesn't have to be long or deep, (or even one of mine), but you'll be surprised at how much better your cereal will taste in the morning because of it (OK, maybe not). Personally, I think we should all learn at least five poems by heart, including one happy poem, one sexy poem (whatever that means to you), one sad poem, one really beautiful poem and one poem that you don't fully understand, but would like to. Try it, you might like it.

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

UNCUFFING THE 'TORTURED ARTIST'

According to this article, scientists are moving closer to understanding the links between certain mental illnesses and creativity. That Schizophrenia and Bi-Polar illness are more common among writers and poets has been pretty well established for a while. Kay Jamison who both studies and suffers from Manic-depressive Illness, has written several books including 'Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament'. The list of writers who have famously committed suicide is long (and severely depressing in its own right). Interestingly enough, poetry is the only art form where scientists can't tell the output of a healthy person from one with schizophrenia. This is in part because the same kinds of tangential word associations that are common in the writing of paranoid schizophrenics are also common in many types of poetry, but most especially in so-called 'Experimental Poetries' such as Language or Elliptical poetry. The big difference is that healthy people know that their metaphors and puns are just that, metaphors and puns, while the schizophrenic insists that they must be understood literally. The mad scientist is a common cultural trope, one that was very commonly used during Cold War cartoons for children in fact. Now there's evidence that many high achieving scientists and mathematicians may in fact be (at least slightly) mad. I still can't figure out if this is good news or bad. One the one hand it confirms something many have suspected for a long time. On the other hand, what's being confirmed is a stereotype that isn't always helpful. Creative people have always been given a lot of leeway to be 'quirky' which is sometimes just enough latitude to function in 'normal' society and sometimes enables mental illness to go undetected and/or treated. I call it the "Pet Unicorn Theory" since unicorns are amazing and mythic and must be treated special or they'll jump the fence. There is no question that the mania I experience when I am highly obsessed with something is a drug-like high that allows me to be much more prolific and creative. I recently pulled out a poem I had written for my favorite 'tortured artist' Edgar Allan Poe, and was revising it, trying to make it work by appearing to border on madness and yet still make sense. In its current form it looks like this;

TOO POE

Melon call ya-
seams such suite

Tsar roe

and is nothing more than the sentence "Melancholia seems such sweet sorrow." enjambed like a haiku and written in all homophonic puns, a riff off of Shakespeare (parting is such sweet sorrow) and a nod to Poe's famous bouts with depression. 'The Raven' is my favorite poem, hands down. Like him I find myself drawn to art that is both profoundly sad and beautiful, especially music. Whether it's Coltrane's 'Lonnie's Lament ' or 'Alabama' or Rodrigo's 'Concierto de Aranjuez' or Sinead O'Connor's version of 'Nothing Compares to You', melancholy beauty does it for me like nothing else. This poem by Catherine Wing has become a recent obsession to the point where I walk around reciting it to myself;


The Darker Sooner

Then came the darker sooner,
came the later lower.
We were no longer a sweeter-here
happily-ever-after. We were after ever.
We were farther and further.
More was the word we used for harder.
Lost was our standard-bearer.
Our gods were fallen faster,
and fallen larger.
The day was duller, duller
was disaster. Our charge was error.
Instead of leader we had louder,
instead of lover, never. And over this river
broke the winter’s black weather.


Methinks Poe would have been proud to have called this his own (Robert Johnson too). The music, the rhythm, the way the Blues suffuses every line, every word is mesmerizing to me. And yet, I'm a very happy person. I certainly don't walk around depressed all the time (black attire notwithstanding). But the playlist I listen to most often on my iPod is called 'Top 25 Songs of Heartbreak'. I practically worship the current 'Queen of Melancholy Beauty' Sade Adu. What's up with that? Maybe I'm immunizing myself to depression by wading in its dark shimmery waters. I think we'll keep that as our standard explanation for now. One thing I do know is that creating (in whatever art form) helps to keep me sane (to the extent that I can claim to be) and there have been many very talented artists for whom it was simply not enough, including my father and famously Sylvia Plath and Charlie Parker. I count myself very lucky in that regard. Here is a poem I wrote about Bird's famous struggle with addiction and mental illness;

ALGORITHM OF THE BLUES

Ornithology revolves the room
at 33 1/3 RPMs.
Charlie Parker solos
from the basement of a mood.
Bird puts a hurting on each note,
flattening them like bottle caps
under the steel heel of his hunger.
Slivers of wind slice through his lungs,
invite our hearts to hear how
the Blues can make pain a Philosophy.
Birds understand the futility of words,
that's why Charlie's tone
is Testimony,
translating complicated phrases.
Bird finds a phrase and fractures it,
sharpens a splintered note into a needle,
and plunges it into
the bulging vein of his need.
Parker's pain is hypodermic.
Bird is a junkie people laugh,
drowning in a bubbling spoon,
but is the song over?
Yardbird invites the heart
to hear how the Blues
can make laughter a Philosophy.
He blows a light-blue melody
unexpected as ketchup on corn flakes,
loops a line of funny chords,
threads a silken solo
through the I of his need,
trying to phrase a fluid tune
so it solidifies into a salve.
His hunger still bubbles
(smack on a spoon).
The horn keeps making its case
to solve his cerulean mood.
But the needle
is in a spiraling groove:
and there’s
twelve bars
welded across every door
out of the basement
of the Blues . . .

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