"The Bukowski in You" by Joel Dias-Porter:
The last lines of the poem:
You’re addicted to
knowing the cards love
no one
but the last hands
to hold them.
Is there anything
sexier than
putting it all-in and
having the moment
Morse code thru your veins?
Anything sexier
than the way
desperation’s dress
hugs her hips?
That’s why you return,
why you tease your chair
to the table’s edge
and post a blind bet,
why you peel the corner
of your hole cards
like they're prosperity’s
last pair
of good panties.
Jeffrey McDaniel hung out with Dias-Porter, also known as DJ Renegade, at one of the casinos where he now works and lives:
"Technically I’m homeless, but I stay in four-star hotels every night," he laughs.
His overnight bag sits on the floor, barely opened; there’s no trace of Renegade in the room. It could be anyone’s room. As a consistent poker player, Renegade gets comped by the casinos, but there are strings attached; he gets his room for only two or three nights in a row, so every couple of days he hops on the AC jitney (a local tourist bus that loops from casino to casino): first taking his computer, then making a return trip for his overnight bag. Each individual casino will comp him only eight rooms in a month, and he can use only two in a week. …
We sit at an empty poker table. It’s early, not even 7PM. “How have things been going lately at the tables?” I ask. Renegade grins, the absent tooth in his mouth seeming to shine, as he throws down a wad of hundreds in a money clip. “I’m the only homeless guy with $4,000 in his pocket.”
The Dish 