Repeating every word until in only sounds,
his description took the heart from heart
& so became a plum, soft & falling in on itself,
his mouth shaping "death" or "the ineffable"
the paradox being: ineffable is just that
while death requires him to speak through the mouth hole
of a black leather mask---death could easily start there
holding hands with hs little sister,
an incestuous sparkle in their eyes.
Someone porposes a toast. The king toasts
his usual, the eighth time tonight:
Here's to more angelic faces for us all...
He picks cards & tallies his chances
of understanding words that smack of something
he's heard so often that they can only sound:
Here's---to---more---angelic---faces---for---us---all...
Tearing swatches of hair from his white crown,
he cries into his bent knees---he's the futile king
whose empires are constructed in shoe boxes,
whose hands look like crabs scuttling along the brass rail.
He winks at himself in the mirror behind the bar.
Inside his deck of cards are more mirrors
but no one listens anymore, his beer-wet lips purse & open,
even the drunk steadying himself against the bar
waves an ipatien hand. Cards sit in foam at the bottom
of his empty mug---yawning mouth---he says---