Life Cycle of the American Gambler
Inspired by "The Killing of a Chinese Bookie"
By Justin Karcher
Somewhere in California losing our minds
small-time gangsters chasing us through a junkyard of trees
broken windshield wipers dangling from branches
they look just like wind chimes but don’t sing any songs
an offering to the god of bad luck, who is also a sleazy loan shark
a float of bird, a nonstop party, a bother of rock but we can’t stop
We’ve spent the last few years
learning how to lose in casinos
that look like the sunken eyes of our toxic fathers
where we try trading our fingers for bottles of Dom Pérignon
but the bartender’s like, “Your fingers aren’t worth anything”
after some bullshitting, he takes pity on us
chops off a couple of our fingers
he’s right though
our fingers haven’t touched anything real in years
reaching toward stars that aren’t there
we’re like astronomers with no formal training
dreamers swinging broomsticks around & screaming
“These are telescopes”
the whole world screaming back
“You’re getting dirt everywhere”
We’ve spent the last few days
trying to experience moments of intimacy in half-demolished nightclubs
where ghost clowns stand center stage & cry latex tears
their sadness forms balloon animals that have forgotten how to roar
that get locked up in zoos & live out their days
poking holes in their own bodies
dreaming up a wilderness tangled up in blue
We’ve spent the last few hours
driving up & down the red coast
hoping the smell of the ocean makes us innocent again
but there’s no beach anywhere, no sandcastles
just these giant piles of raw meat with googly eyes on them
so they look like monsters still alive despite the cleaver
despite our hunger
giant billboards everywhere that read, “Rejoice, the butcher is dead”
We’ve spent the last few seconds
removing our brains
replacing them with roulette wheels
placing bets on our insecurities
why we do what we do
then the croupier spins
flashing lives
a glimpse of the future
what we want to happen
revolution crushing the narrative of old-fashioned self-destruction
the most dazzling drag queens
arming themselves with pocket knives
sneaking into the bedrooms of debt-ridden men
the drag queens cut out their dreamless tongues
then they go outside, climb utility poles & stick the tongues on top
like angels on Christmas trees it’s all too beautiful
Then there’s peace on earth a very loud voice declaring “Love how you love, but harder”
Don’t gamble it all away it’s too late we have nothing left to give do we pick up the gun?
Justin Karcher is a Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright born and raised in Buffalo, New York, where he is the unofficial poet laureate of the theater community. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). He is also the editor of Ghost City Review and co-editor of the anthology My Next Heart: New Buffalo Poetry (BlazeVOX [books], 2017). He tweets @Justin_Karcher.”