By Anthony Connolly

Tattoo battered pendulum arms
Of the things he’s seen
Blue birds 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,
Picassos serendipity tracks mutilating his inner
Arms, pumping, self abusive, reborn
Through the passage of the day,
The poison slowly dripping off his fingertips.

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