After a Visit to a Native-American Poker Room (where they still let ya smoke) by Kyle Ducz

Every single evening spent, despite true blissful drifts away being a rarity
Somehow yields all energy necessary for the forthcoming daybreak

Your breath is magic and there’s empirical proof
our four wheeled Ford chariot lay still
on the sixty-four square foot asphalt throne
of which you and I have been named the royal couple tonight
Blinding white lights that reek of recent installation
Force your slumber far from the windows, into my arms
And as you fall deeper into twilight, your lungs expel all your troubles
Through every breath, you blow your frets closer and closer to the window
Slightly cracked
But those few worries that can’t find their way out,
and haven’t yet made their escape,
I simply breathe in

See you may not know it, but
Though conservative estimates
as to the number of hours we’d spend honestly dozing
tend to range below one quarter of a clock face
Just knowing I’ve sucked the life out of at least one of your fears
And packed it deep below a vicious cloud of cigarette smoke
And poisoned that poisonous reservation
Gives me more of a kick
Than pushing all of my chips to the pot
and walking away

Kyle Ducz
Kyle is a college student trying to figure out why he’s still there. Listen to the music he doesn’t know why he makes.



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