If you have never closed your eyes and savored
the taste of the sound of the stars in your mouth,
rolled them around, each vanilla twinkle and every
yellow sprinkle reminding you
Today is the day that life begins
then you must not have lived
a day in your life,
no?
I was built to spill the ink from my veins onto your bleached frame
and tattoo the hidden swirls and contours of my mind on your margins.
With a twist and a curly-Q I carve my secrets in between
your light blue capillaries.
You are made of white gold miracles.
Hold my hand and lead me to God.
and Sky said hello with a blink
until the planes fell from Her bosom
into her drinking bowl and emptied the sea
into China’s mouth.
Spoken word poetry that will change your life.
The half-hearted phoenix has a way with words,
slit my throat and throw me in the fire
and I’ll raise up, the discouraged,
courageously owning myself,
the miracle feathered firebird
of life.
I am only half the size of the Earth today,
but tomorrow I will span the skies,
winged by the sundrop goldilocked
cloudbursts of dazzled dawn.
I will wear the kiss of Elohim
upon my cheek.
This is the art for the tattoo I want. Done by Lakota Meyer from St. Peters, Missouri. It’s inspired by my love for music and poetry, as well as the Bukowski poem “Bluebird.”
Drop a pen into a puddle and hold your breath, never drowning
As an inkling of ink encroaches upon your ego and slings itself across
The silver Pacific, conquer distance, forget time, an intertwined interface
Brands us the long-lost spring, lips locked with summer as our souls tic
Like minute clockwork spirit-windings, forgotten in the volcanic hell-lakes
Swimming beneath our feet. We learned through glistened eyes not to be
Such children, Momma slapping the slipping syllables from our infantile gobs,
Saying: “Don’t you cry wolf.” And with wisdom so wet and wild we wondered:
“How could one ever live without such knowledge?” and then Niagra
Dived down our dimpled cheeks and chased our breath from our cherub chests,
Drenching our bodies in everything we never wanted a part of. And as queer as it sounds,
You were the qualtagh of the quadrennial leap, the quietus of the quod,
The birth of beauty and the forgotten fear of fog.
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