I play poker at the Excalibur. Look for me; I'll be the one with death in his eyes.

He showboats when he's got a winning hand, waiting until somebody else thinks he's won and is about to reach for the chips, or is even reaching for the chips, before he turns over his cards, which is about the biggest dick move that you can make at a poker table.

The fact that I’m a writer doesn’t really get mentioned at the game, mostly because it’s hard to instill fear and/or respect in other poker players when the fact that you’re a poet comes up. Who’s scared of a poet? Only a smaller poet, or a really young child.

I'm reading A. Alvarez's The Biggest Game in Town, a book about
the 1981 World Series of Poker, and I ran across a quote about a poker
player losing his roll and then "sleeping for an hour, then crying for
an hour, then sleeping for an hour."

Ours is a tough game. Some new players have come for some action and then lasted for only one game; they come in, buy in for forty dollars, quickly get down to felt (run out of chips), get this shocked look on their faces—What the hell just happened?—and then never come back.

If you want to take my money playing poker, get really, really drunk.

It was Ivan’s turn to deal. After the deal, we all go to look at our
cards before the first round of betting. Ivan, to “get it started
right,” then says, “Let’s ride the pony, gentlemen.” There was a
horrible, awkward pause.

Poker Problem: Why must God destroy everything that I love?

The classic/smart play is to check it and try to represent that I'm on a draw. Fifth street comes and somebody bets, I come over the top, and I get paid off nicely. Of course, I get greedy, like a dumb bastard, and I make the max bet, two dollars, and everybody folds. No fifth street and no fifth street betting.