I do not understand his moves.
They
are random, his queen
traipsing
across the board
like
a streetwalker looking for tricks
with
a lusty bishop or a knight
behaving
like a Calaveras jumping frog.
He
throws the I Ching before every move,
looking
at the random yarrow sticks
before
pushing a pawn into slave labor.
He
smiles a lot and says he can’t lose.
“It
is what it is,” he says with a sigh.
“Be
good, be kind. Drink rice wine
and
make love in moderation.
Study
art, politics, and religion.”
I
move a rook two squares to the left.
“You’re
a stereotype,” I say. “Checkmate.”
He
scratches a whiskered chin.
“Ah,”
he says. “Just as it should be.
The
Mandate of Heaven prevails."
He
is full of wind and words,
a
puffy cloud with too many followers.
He
puts a stick in each of his nostrils
and
twitches his erudite nose.
“I
am a walrus,” he laughs.
“Ah,
just as it should be,” I say.
“The
laughing toad gathers no moss.
A
stitch in time saves nine. Etcetera.”
He
snores while I sneak away
with
his college coed courtesan.
~William Hammett
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