Knave of Swords

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.