Chain, chain reaction, chain of events. I feel the chain hung round my neck and bite it to inspect. Yes, it’s solid gold. I am so swag; I am chained to the rhythm, and everyone follows the chain and flashes their own, but are we in chains? Or perhaps interchanged, waiting so long for change we forget our hands chained behind our backs; pray chain break, break chain till the rhythm. It’s compressed, oh link chain, chain link up outside; we’ll create community by chain smoking. We puff and we pass and maybe we pass on, in succession like the clink of a key chain. I refrain, I think. Where do I stand in the chain of command? Yes, that man, chainsaw in hand, cuts off our hands so we can be free? In this? The promised land. Maybe this chain is a noose. I am strung up with stolen gold, unchanged, and the chain, the chain, the chain—it continues.