when the Joker laid down his Ace

we were eating deep fried corn nuggets

and arguing about the sharpness

of Jesus’s canine teeth

when the phone rang

 

not a normal ring either

more like a death metal tribute

to a country-western heart pang

 

the 5 sugar latte voice on the line

was a high pitched overdose of reality

with tetanus nails sticking out

of the overly implied sugar lumps

 

the wild-eyed headman had died in his sleep

due to major blockages in his dream vessels

and minor venial rot accelerated

by depressive tendencies & chemical overload

 

my tears were freefall cinderblocks

and my nerve endings all encased themselves

in that thick black ice that hides

my softly pulsing nucleus from the coy dogs

who hide in the tall weeds of playground memories

 

it wasn’t that he, himself, was perfect

just that he was perfectly himself

no matter what the weather report said

 

he could sing a love song

while dancing, neck-deep, in bullshit

and he didn’t hesitate to call Fate's bluff

even when his soul was the ante

 

he was just lying there like a painted stone

no passion humming through his fuel lines

no fire pouring from his eyes

 

he was wearing his dress Air Force uniform

I saw a bar napkin peeping from his breast pocket

just beyond the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart

it was a deep note written in a drunken scrawl

 

it read, “if I’m dead, steal my body

and smuggle it, trimmed or whole

to the Devil’s Arse in Derbyshire

bathe it in Single Malt Scotch

and leave it to the shadows of the cavern

 

they’ve always understood me better

than the flesh golems of everyday warfare.

never forget that I love you noble b******s

even if I do it from the cheap seats”

 

so, when we’d finished chanting

the appropriate sacred nursery rhymes

and shaving away the right amounts

of our-eternal-selves,

 

we did what he asked

via midnight spade head

and chartered iron dove

 

I still go to the grave marker sometimes

but, for some awkward tickle

I can’t plug my giggles

when I think of the empty

coffin underneath

 

his jokes were always dressed

in shotgun blasted punchlines

 

I’m just glad he didn’t change

when he finally reached Farmer God’s

golden gate

 

I hope my cash-out is just as jingly

when I get to square up with the House

 

this deck should remain stacked

with more grimy jokers

than uptight kings

 

we are the cayenne pepper

that makes eating this shitcake doable

 

at least he was

 

I’m still learning not to care