rustled, prone in to cacophony, O knave of swords gagged by sharp iron down gullet you cannot shout around your nature there must first be time for dehiscence despite the all around voices dinning to oblivion like trees pilloried by the wind. Tilt of chin back, mouth spat tongue, two fingers reach in for a long pull. Gusped belly full of air for even the mute sometimes try to scream. Meanwhile, There is no sound save for the taste of blood and antifreeze. A cragged face in a mud puddle Salt from the sky Burned parchment My fingers feel the clicking knob of my father's CB the squelch throbs inner ear. If there was time to listen for a tardy epiphany. I awaken with a pistol barrel in my mouth.
Another poem that’s mostly about ineffective communication. The Jack/Page/Knave of Swords is the tarot card for communication, and I liked the image of him as a sword swallower.