HARD SIX CODA (a poem)

Wednesday, August 27, 2025

Time to roll the hard six, buddy—
dice rattle like bones in a soldier’s palm,
meteors clattering across the felt of night.

The table is cosmic.
Every constellation leans forward
to see if we dare.

There is an intonation the universe can take—
a low chord struck at thresholds,
a hum beneath the chest,
a signal waiting in the static.
Not luck, but resonance.
Not fortune, but frequency.

Then—
the ecstasy of stars aligned.
An impossible pattern flares,
burning in our key.
The cosmos exhales,
and the impossible holds.

And God smiles.
A burst of refracted glory
splashes off our portraits—
faces lit with the fire of witness.

A moment etched for recall:
that upon this throw,
we have lived and died,
and we have done it together.

And the geese squawk,
their honk becomes a song,
ragged brass in the choir,
comic and holy,
earth crying back to heaven.

Even the sunshine’s on a dog’s ass some days—
crooked light,
random, undeserved,
yet radiant all the same.

So we wag our tails,
trampling mom’s flowers,
a trampy flight of joy,
and no one got caught.

Cue sweating bullets.
The metal growl takes the floor—
a Megadeth mantra,
teeth bared, strings grinding,
faith turned furnace,
luck turned scream.

Daddy had a downturn—
like lightning,
like Great Balls of Fire,
like Maverick breaking the sound barrier.

The coda keeps sampling:
jukebox and jet trail,
every throw a mixtape
of grit and glory.

And still we pretend,
hoping the extra pays no notice.
If I can maintain the peace,
the Force can still flow through us.

Or, like science,
we reconstruct and try to grasp—
yet we are lost in that snap,
that shot,
and that glass.

So roll away,
and never spend your last.

✦ Roll.