In the tattoo parlor
to be etched permanently…
And that’s the problem with permanence:
it doesn’t exist until it always has or always will.
Pain and skin and pen and ink and pain.
Stoic, transcendent, present.
Try making some noise!
I gave the long out breath for a long black line
the vital rib-vein of a leaf,
voicing the breath: aaaaaaaaAAAhhhaahhhhaAaaaaaahhh
Singing pain out, out
from behind eyelids into orange eyelid light.
Rising or falling,
buzzing or ripping,
I learned that pain respects an honest song.
I learned to focus on singing
or the pain in the mind would out-shriek
pain in the body.
and no derision,
no thought of an idea.
Only the song.
Sensation comes and goes.
Only sing an honest song.