Casino Blues

Dropping the sounds of the bell, thumb drunk drummer shambling through a measure. Measures never really end.  This I know through experience, of not knowing the difference between a telephone and grand prize winner.

Dropping the sounds of the cards, smoke stained glory breads fill me with gleeful images of a modern day messiah, third cigarette down and all in.  Bare witness to all of them around a velveteen final table, one last hand, one last dinner.

Dropping the sounds of the chips, and quarters, oysters and invincible boarders, enough! The mad cats from sunrise to sunset, filling in their bodies of destructible luxury, burning fevers of luck, dying breathes of one last wild guess.

Leaving the cellar smoke in the building, it trails me longer than the visual memory of being in the casino. Dug in my coat, tagged on my scarf the smell of cheap rolled cigarettes ignite in measures I tried to ignore. With my hand on the cool to touch door handle.

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I hear it! Perfect in dharmic rhyme.  The sound of nothing consumes my collection of molecules, that press into my feet, out my shoes and I become, collectively another murky drop in the bucket.

I never believed the poet, he’s a drunk and crazy, but he was right. Listening is like not listening, so I guess, I don’t have to listen, anymore.