To Jason Allen Chandler—
To a man for whom all things are possible
everyone is a threat, everything
a doubt in his plan, and barrel-chested like
a Borden, I keep my explosive temper
close at hand, next to my side like a weapon.
You are perceptive as always: dark inner-
workings, quite fractured, in that girl (in them both,
in them all?)—I grin widely whenever I
think of you—giving my Self, doubtless, even
more wrinkles, those things my wisdom shows the world.
But what of this art that does not yet have an
audience? Ours which has so much promise—too
much, in fact—for us to just let it sit and
not impact heads, to attack thoughts with concepts
our punches pack? Words that kill with no regrets.
Tell me, sir, do you possess, until bringing
into being, those wicked things you wish to
manifest? Are you spirited? Do you bless
your workspace with libations you sprinkle with
fists clenched? Is it magic in your love’s liquid?
I remember, now, how you drank of these same
questions when, years ago, we sought to tame our
familiars, those beasts of memories—how your
name met my mine again, before fame dug in
its claws, and immortality’s jaws bit us.
Swallowing it all, I want to know more—if
you keep hid between your teeth the story we
consecrated to silence? The gilded one,
that tongue’s golden legend the ending of which
tickles the throat with those treasures beyond price.