Like the Dog I Am

“When he told me he needed a fountain pen, I dismissed it as normal, what normal passes for anyhow in this world we inhabit. And then, later, I thought, hold on, he’s going to stick that nib into his vein and write a book out of his own blood. A few moments of panic and then normality grabbed me again, bit me hard on the cheek. I could see him doing it too, hunched over his desk, the one with the cartridges on it, madly scribbling verse in his own métier. Later, compelled by gnawing cold and dead bang fusion induced by god’s nectar, I called. He mumbled something, late-night obscenities -caffeine-inspired rage of the insomniac. I let it go at that, all was well in our small page of the global book. He rang me later, as the moon bowed out and the big yellow ball gripped folk’s throats again. Here, it’s finished. He told me coldly. How could he write a poetry book in . . . I cut myself short, Hank had done it once out of fear, fear of losing the artery of creation. I read it, went to a bar and ordered tequila. I was after the lime and salt, something to mask the sting his words had left in my mouth. He wrote this book for you because you are the axis. I don’t know who you are, but I know who he is, he’s a dog, a dog that roams the night looking for tomorrow. When he told me he needed a fountain pen, I knew why, I just didn’t know he’d slaughter language with it.”