How Festive the Ambulance. Kim Fu

and his accent—too thick

      not to question its veracity, really—

      sticks like phlegm to the edge of the drain.

      Russia is not a real country. Then

      he goes to the Club

      for Beautiful Men.

      Stagehands add one more layer

      of orange cooking grease to the wall

      behind the stove, take a fine chisel

      to the filaments of the aquamarine

      1970s fridge. The illusion

      of slow appliance death.

      They paint mustard stains

      on his white undershirt, then rub them in

      deeper, as though someone once

      tried to wash them out.

      Afterhours

      We sit in the Joker’s dressing room, taking hits off a canister of Joker Venom. He says, “The best love stories are unconsummated. That’s why Romeo and Juliet sucked.” He giggles, today somewhere between Mark Hamill and Tigger from Winnie the Pooh: “Hoo hoo hoo!” The PA lies dead in the corner: scooped-out sickle face, upper gums and all his teeth on display, eyes rolled back in a forever paroxysm of glee. We’ve built up an immunity. We will never be that happy.

      Joker’s many tongues writhe living on a rack. One long and pointed, devil-dagger. One too wide for his mouth, making him slurp and lisp. Many tongues of ordinary men, where he lurks most often.

      Streetlamp shadows gone to morning. I am short again and eighty years old. “You don’t look a day over thirty-five,” he coos. Death as consummation. “I can kill everyone you love,” he says. “They’re all so boring. I can do this—” He lifts my mask to kiss me on the nose. This mask shows only my exquisite jawline. He bites, gently, rests the guillotine pressure of his teeth. I glance at the vanity mirror as he pulls away, expecting a lipstick mark that isn’t there. Sweat cuts a canyon down his temple. This Joker wears white powder, but his lips are permanently candy apple red. By accident, nature or design.