(October 29, 1984) granddaddy wrote me a letter, a year
before he died.
he told me about life in Canada
as a small boy ablaze
on the precipice of innocence and.

(August 18, 1999) i’m writing a poem for granddaddy
fifteen years after he became a feather
on the breast and plume of the phoenix.
on monday i’ll be returning to school, after a 2yr hiatus of sorts
on monday i’ll stop my affair with cocaine, and spend less time
with my mistress alcohol, and will do my best
to become more like granddaddy was, and is.

granddaddy taught me my first lessons regarding chivlary
and autonomous divinity, he was stern when required, and
abundant with love when required, and many times between then
and here i could have used his sagacity, i could have used all of him
many times since ‘85, but i know he has whispered much enough
since then in his own way.

in his letter, grandaddy mentioned that he used to play
with homemade squirt guns, and he promised to show me
how he made them, but that was a year before he became
the iris of the dragon.

and some people claim that hell is hot, but i know that
right now heaven is peaking in the high 90’s
and that granddaddy and the angels are on the precipice and engaged
in a furious war with squirt guns designed
from a wisdom unpossessed by mortals.