Friends, in a circle, are seldom Found
and yet, we go to these tables, with poker-faces
and play the game, of no touching
of not saying
anything
of not revealing
dirty hands we were dealt
in life
or the friends we discarded
or the games we folded
praying
and not playing
the game.
Johnny wins, because he keeps his own counsel
and his friends
are held in his hands
Suicide Kings
over Jacks
a full house of friends.
Nobody flushes his toilet
in his house
without his permission
and no Queens bitch about the toilet seat being up
because Johnny loves himself.
He doesn’t
abide Jokers
in his deck
messing-up
his mathematical game.
These gatherings
are not to make friends.
Suckers play
to suck,
hoping to attach themselves
to a bigger fish
but Johnny has evolved,
walking around on two feet—
a whale
that no longer wants to swim
in water.
He doesn’t need schools
He just is, Johnny
He knows
the game
the gamble
the ace up his sleave
fuck everybody.
Nobody can beat that—
not when the game is poker—
they pretend
it’s something else.
Johnny doesn’t lie to himself
but he lies
to everybody else
bluffing
testing
his enemies
with his eyes.
He owns the game
because he traded his soul
to the dealer
to become
the perfect player.
What will you trade eternity for?
Anything?
What life will you live
over and over?
People can’t wait to die
No, that’s wrong—
they were never
alive.
If this poem is judgmental
maybe,
fish weren’t meant to walk on land
but this fish does—
he refuses
to flop around
like a fool.