GAMBLING MAN

by Raymond Nat Turner

 

Even though the table’s tilted; the dice are loaded;

and the cards are marked; even though light-fingered

double-dealers declare that we “don’t have the cards;”

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on The People

everyday.

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on The People

everyday.

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on Everyday People

everyday.

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on Everyday People

everyday.

Betting on ordinary ones

doing extraordinary, all hands on deck, things.

Doing disbanding circular firing squad things.

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on ordinary ones doing extraordinary things—

magic—magic that made Mrs. Marcos flee the Philippines

leaving behind hundreds of pairs of her pricey shoes.

Magic that lifted The Shah from peacock throne and made 

Mobutu, Batista, Baby Doc, The Samosas and Assad… disappear…

 

 

 

 

 Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; Black Agenda Report's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC.

TO GATSBY

by Devon Balwit

USA Today Instagram graphic, November 3, 2025

A hundred years since Fitzgerald gave us The Great Gatsby,

a man we first meet reaching into the dark.

At first, he seems sad, then sinister, then sad again.

Some people have it so easy, old sport,

he marvels in his practiced accent. We know. We can see 

their ballrooms scintillating, distant and unreachable. 

We gather at their property line and try to make sense of their hilarity.

The vast eyes of advertisements—crypto, AI, online gambling—

stand in for God’s: No matter how hard we work 

the lever, the payout goes to the next guy, to someone 

someone’s only heard about. You need cash to sleep 

with another man’s wife. Spoiler: The book ends 

with a bang—a car crash, Gatsby’s murder, a suicide.

Sycophants queued up for his parties. None came to his funeral.

When not making art, Devon Balwit walks in all weather and edits for Asimov Press, Asterisk Magazine, and Works in Progress.

TOSSING DICE IN FLORIDA

by Mickey J. Corrigan

"Florida Hurdles" — Claytoonz by Clay Jones

You flip a seven and—

the day hatches bright, shiny

new penny in the white sand

bronze bodies washing off 

emptiness at the azure shore.

Morning brings no escape

from one's and two's

wild gaze, rocky wonders

a better hand today

to grasp straws with claws.

The afternoon overheats

hard scowls over face cards

erasing your winnings

double-crossing the house.

Happy hour obliterates 

all of tomorrow's concerns:

another wave of cool luck

or a fast ride under glass

flashing lights ablaze.

Night sounds simmer down

squelched by humid air 

the eerie cries of coyotes

nosing barrels of scraps

soaked in fresh blood.

The unknown lingers:

that you awaken again

to another day of play

fate on your side… 

or you're forced to fold

beating, beating

like bones on a drum—

taps, not reveille.

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes tropical noir with a dark humor. Her poetry has been widely published in literary journals and chapbooks. In 2020, Grandma Moses Press released Florida Man. Her novel The Physics of Grief puts the fun back in funerals while taking a serious look at the process of mourning (QuoScript, UK, 2021). 

ON BEING STUCK AND STACKED DECKS

by Jen Schneider

Dave Granlund cartoon via Milford Daily News.

1. Something bitter. Noun. Plural.

2. Something sour. Noun. Plural.

3. Something sweet. Noun. Plural.

4. Something vulnerable. Noun. Plural.

5. Someone who is vulnerable. Noun. Plural.

6. Something that is increasing in number. Noun. Plural.

7. Something else that increases in number. Noun. Plural.

8. A Whole number. Greater than six and less than eleven.

9. A whole number. Less than six

10. An antonym for permanent.

11. A synonym for the adjective just 

12. Another word for exonerated

Breaking news alerts proliferate. 

Prosper, too. Prime time menus 

of mixed reviews mingle and morph 

amongst clam covered 

palms and sweat stained pits.

Stomachs ache 

of __1__ and __2__. 

 

Memories of __3__ fade into

forever setting suns as storm 

clouds crystallize. Frowns

form. Red and blue ink

blur. Times New Roman

font crosses paths with Lato.

Wet signatures dry. Personals 

pay final respects. Records

are released. 

 

Wild prey wait on nearby wires. Dollars

wait in nearby banks. Electric

energy both watching and waiting. 

Lighting strikes in predictable patterns

and on predictable prey.

 

The vulnerable press. Charge, too.

No matter. Mathematics makes

for logical work and two consonants 

(F / R)

and two vowels 

(E / E) 

yield a limited

number of combinations. 

Permutations, too.

 

Reef(s) hover at or near

the surface of stormy seas. 

Barriers built to protect those

in need - __4__

and __5__ weaken

until those in need become

no more than numbers. 

 

Data most revealing. 

Most numbers grow - 

__6__ and __7__

while others diminish. 

Brute force always finds a way

to unlock combinations long

proffered as secure. Sentences

often flip, then flop. __8__ turns

to __9__with a subtle twist.

Zippers release and seams snap.

Nylon curtains drop and faux

satin sheets fall. Silver

linings dissipate.

Accounts empty then fill.

 

Golden standards have always been tarnished.

Gambling has always been a predetermined 

proposition. Printing presses turn out F.R.E.E.

passes as pressed charges turn off the lights.

Light, too. Games systems everywhere.

 

Not all Aces are pure. 

Not all Spades are sacred. 

To win is not always ___10___.

To be free, not always __11__.

 

Hands reveal hidden tricks

and luck turns. Locks turn left 

and engines run. Game on 

and now over. Energy depleted.

 

To be free 

is not to be __12__.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Her work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.