I
may
play the
joker, *****
the knave, covet
the queen, and tuck
the ace of spades under my
pillow on a ringed moon night,
but I am forever shuffling the same
deck of cards. Marked cards, imprinted
with loss and patterned with misfortune. Co
urt cards dressed in ill-fitting suits, each face as
familiar as my own. Four seasons, four pips; twelve
months, twelve crowns. One card for each week of the
year. Sequentially pred  ictable, and as underwhelming
as a rigged roulette wheel. U ntil, unable to distinguish
between the red and the    b    lack, the picture and the
plain, I fold. Void of      co     ntracts, and bleeding
widowe                            d blanks.
.....So.....
deal­ me in,
but deal me unpainted
and unmastered. Deal me clean.

Between the envelope and gondola I'm lighter-than-air. Montgolfier-style? Not really. I ascend as a prayer with his eyes wide shut, timid in the feel for heaven. Speaking of heaven, some say it's no longer a gated community, but the association fees have doubled. Really I float like a Yost, flaming onboard for the photo shoot. The morning pass is for the kids with spending power. The noon move, and media darling, catches the Comic-Con crowd just stumbling out of a parent's basement. The night drift, drink in hand, mimics the trigger man who got his days confused from too much killjoy. Laissez-passer both giveth and taketh away -- there is no immunity in the sky, no amnesty to assign my crimes to. I'm just your smiley actor on the Netflix trail. You love me for a season or until my balloon gets popped. Whichever comes first.