By Anthony Connolly

Tattoo battered pendulum arms
Of the things he’s seen
Bluebirds and tangled webs
Vines and dark angels on Harleys.

Back and forth his arms
The hue of hope, descant, memory
Part flesh, part art.

Air, arms pumping
ahead of him, as a
constant reminder of
the things he’s seen
and where he’s been.

Mother, then
Then, Mother

Turning slightly, I see at the center of his chest
Sliced with dye, a crucified Christ,
His back, a Chagall canvas where
The winds whip welts, wounds, worn
The things that are behind
Him, part flesh, part art.

He stares ahead as he cuts a swath
Through the beauty of the lilies,
Picasso’s serendipity tracks mutilating his inner
Arms, pumping, self-abusive, reborn
Through the passage of the day,
The poison slowly dripped off his fingertips.

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