55,56,57

 

Tom Stone Image

Credit TomStone Photography -Stories

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

’55, ’56, ’57

Striking blue, wise eyes
Entered the room with a bang.
Radiating midwestern farming grace.

An octagenarian debating.
A tattoo. His first.
Body mods desired since the last century.

A football.
American oval, not International round.
Pigskin body mod from last century.
(in the old days, apprentice tattooists practiced their craft…on pigskin)

’55, ’56, ’57
Emblazoned – permanently. To remember
Glory days fading from view.
(Hurry. Once it starts it may be too late)

Fading from view in an aging minds eye.
So many clouded already, then gone.
Lost. Already.

I watched his eyes. He never tipped off what the story was.
I knew he was having a hard time making the leap.
Accepting the fact that permanence isn’t always so.
Not in the mind.

A “bucket list” thing, fear driven.
A last grab at what happenned.

He was having a hard time making the leap
To his thoughts and to his skin.
His wife was next door at the Thrift Store.

Those blue eyes said it wasn’t the permanence of the act.
It was that the moment from years ago now must be seized, documented or lost.

Out of necessity.

One hundred and fifty dollars.
“Ill be back. Meet my wife, have a bite, and then … I’ll probably be back.” He stuttered the last “probably”.

I know exactly how he feels. Assuming I remembered correctly.

I didn’t stutter.

Silent Revenge

Tears.

Through sewn shut slits
I watch them file past.
In no particular order.
Reverent.
As never before.
Ears pinned back
Reveal their whispers of
How peaceful I look
In my waxy pallor,
Underneath the clown mask hue.
Coiffed and sprayed hair
Covers those ears.
Taking in all
those things they wish
They’d said before.
Through pasty, painted lips
I laugh an echoed chamber laugh
knowing I now had
what I’d always wanted.
Revenge, and regret spills from their eyes.
Tears.

Ode To A Mentor

Code-words and handshakes
for a secret society.
Masons not so free
sit Indian styled
around campfires
of worship singing Kumbayah.

Bring a moving target,
a sacrificial lamb to
prove our God-ness.
Circle jerks and sucking
literary cock may be justified.
Learning, is not if it forms the wrong opinion.

However, knowledge and talent
exemplary, and obvious, is so worthy
of being shared amongst friends.
After the vote is taken, recounts will be
handled by the public with numbers stacked.

(more…)

Your Imaginary Savior

Imaginary Savior

In your eyes I wish I wasn’t so unremarkable.

Imaginary Savior.

In the Comfortable facade you have wrapped me in,
MY wings have been stripped, tattered feathers.

On a cross you sacrifice me and LOVE.
On a mountain far away from Calvary.
Though it feels like I hide in Suburbia.

On the ground below me no frankincense.
Just the myrrh – myrrh of my own voice trailing to the abyss.

(more…)