You hear the buzz.
Your body is tense.
The needle goes in.
The ink flows.

You begin to relax.
Your mind wonders.
Black and grays.
Traditional.  Oriental.

It's mesmerizes your soul.
You are lost in the moment.
Minutes turn to hours.
It's all done.

It is there.
On your body.
For the world to see.
Permanent ink.

I pried out my own skin
wide open
with needles dipped
in cheap india ink; I dabbed
at the black mixed with red
staining my fingers.
Do I do this for the pain,
or to get the poison trickling in
to my skin, to my veins?
A symbol, an alphabet.
Vast meanings that I tried to bestow
upon them hours later
really means nothing at all.

There's the cause and the effect,
which really goes both ways.
The pain for the gain
of the blurred out ink under my skin,
and the gain for the pain
of the sharpness prickling

my ankles, both legs
bare the stain of alcohol tinged
nights.
The skin beneath my eyelids
a darkened haze;
but the tattoo still burns
needle-sharp against it all.

He was sitting behind me in a resteraunt
Alone
Engrossed in a book
An Iranian author
A set of essays
He was nice to the waiter
A foreign accent, a tattoo of the sea and bright red hair
A candle created shadows on his face
I turned around
I like to explore unknown territory
He held out his phone
Out of place in the context of his person
Perhaps that's why he hasn't made any more contact
Like the fleeting patterns on his skin on a cold city night

"Honestly? I'd just cover that up", he says

Orion's not moving. Stars don't move.
They may die, they may dim, they may traverse galaxies
Change position in the night sky with the seasons
Give me one. good. reason.
To cover up my compass home,
The one good thing, the one beautiful thing,
On this scarred and wretched body?

"We'll put Orion somewhere else, start over"

You're not my mother, ripping out a new piercing
Locking the door on a daughter and her father
Drinking and dating and thinking "start over"
My skin is just my skin, the moles and ink
And decisions are mine to live in
How dare you claim yourself an artist,
yet break down your clientele, your canvas

So Orion's not the problem, sir
It's a debauched attitude toward station
When I follow the stars tonight, I will tell them
Needles have no consideration