Named Michelangelo, his iron buzzes with colors
of Magik-Flo: Pinky Winky, Yellow Belly, Green
Bean, and Tribal Black. Secrets lurk behind labels
of Ghost White, After Birth Violet, Grim Grey, and
Psycho Blue. Locals talk about getting some ink,
being carved, about the showcase, or meat
still raw from pounding. Tat and tac, a foreign idiom,
have many meanings: a silent canvas, a cadaver;
needles and tubes, the work. Looking up at the flash,
a devil holds a pitchfork, barbed wire clowns laugh,
and a snake twists around a sword. Fairies, skulls,
and all seeing eyes--- not for us. Imagine butterflies
on a breast or moths on inner thighs. Bald eagles
fly next to baby bottles and aliens. Swastika arms
bend beside a biker's iron cross. An ex-con
names his fists "crazy" and "fearless". A tiger leaps.
Dragons climb. After the shuffle, dealt diamonds,
spades, clubs, and hearts, everyone has a puncture
below the surface filled with color and permanence.
A foot triggers the machine. A needle moves in
and out, driving the dye; tingling or wasp stings, it
depends on you. Cutting is the poetry of dreams
and nightmares. Fix on what you can live with.
A decisive woman has sunflowers on her buttocks
or a lover's face on her hip. This art electrifies
the ache and red trickle. Perhaps it is the healing
or tattoos wed us. So, sling ink at zero hour. We
give a nod to the artist, smiling at our new paint.
Electronic trash dumps, commingling
In the synapses of cells,
sparking in the brainstem where God
imprints. The crystal ball
burns omnipresent throughout the nervous
system.
The nameless suicide bomber,
rumbles through cerebellum
hemispheres. Ticker creeping,
piling up snow flake by flake,
word by word, accumulating
bits of the world with a crawl.
Dimes fall, with so many faces, spinning
in the frozen skull outposts. Out there,
33 dead; here, a drift, in temporal lobes,
disembodied dots, pixels gather
in the flecks and speckles of gray matter,
the junk I never touch.
A smoky jail has locked in the barrens,
imprisoning, I guess, ten thousand pitch pines
whose chaotic downward outlines disappear
hiding bundles of twisted needles.
No sun, no startled crows remain; the valley
is darkening too. The faces of pointed
scaled cones, hold resolute,
grimacing,
scowling at the mystery of their fate.
Only by fire do they open.
Only by the licks of flames
do their eyes awake.
Missiles burst into life
on the burnt earth.
Rosemarie Crisafi lives in Fishkill, New York. She writes poetry and she works in for a non-for-profit agency that serves individuals with disabilities.