“This is conclusive, and if men are capable of any truth, this is it.”
…………………………………………………. —Blaise Pascal, on his wager
Blaise’s Place
Blaise’s place is on a sunset strip
paved razor-straight through desert air
many cul de sacs veer from its hot black path
squeezed in a pass between mountains there,
west, where the day goes down in a blaze
The road’s white line on the northern side
is lit with votive flame-tipped wax
while, southside, glass-tubed neon glows
glazing away in pink-lit veneer
as fountains spit casino-high
from cool pools and golden taps
The landscape reeks of myrrh & beer
on a highway set with brilliant traps:
a bet to which Blaise alludes,
but away from which
Blaise-skeptics steer
A crooner sings from a glittery stage
with background bells of dollar slots,
a mix in warp & weft on a nameless loom
with Gregorian chants wrung
into gambler’s knots
—priests & players in cassocks, albs,
sequined shirts, and denim pants
—Sketchers shuffling under slick, chic suits,
heads with miter-lids and baseball caps
—water & booze from an aspergillum
dipped in Byzantine plastic flask and flung,
dots ears and eyes and throbbing sternums
beating for life in which wisdom basks
But, as if in Solomon’s chair,
Blaise calls all bettors there,
throws loaded dice against a wall
that runs from floor
past stratosphere,
past moon, past sun,
past galaxies through warps of space
to end of time, but
always ends down here
where gamblers grumble
and losers grouse
that the odds (by grace)
are always with the house
by Jim Culleny, 1/29/17
JIm Culleny – Blaises Place – Clyp
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