Where Did You Go?

I would appreciate help revising, especially with "Blue Windbreaker Jacket." Thanks.

Blue Windbreaker Jacket

I slept on your jacket accidentally.
Your blue windbreaker jacket.

The one with the black edges
fraying with old age,
pulling effortlessly apart
like the ragged rope toy
of a strong-jawed dog.

It leaves little string bits
for me to step on.

The one with the crisp hue
still virgin, somehow. The one
with the swish swish fabric
that clicks along
with your bicycle.
I can always hear you
down the hallway.
Swish swish.

Much too much large for you
as it’s always been.
And it will always be, I feel,
that same tent shape:
A room for you.

One time I remember particularly well-
you
and your jacket.

It was at your feet
by your blue backpack
by your blue shoes
(I think you might’ve liked blue)

and you were hunched.
I could count
the shallow gaps between
the broad lines of your back.

I wanted to trace them with my black, edged fingernails
and sit across from you.
That is all really.
That is all.

You were quiet, and there it was.
Your blue windbreaker jacket.

Blockade

The pads of my feet gently touch
upon the tile in the dimly lit kitchen
soaked in grease and boot polish.
I can hear them talking, harshly whispering
the dribble coming down from their mouths.
I can hear the click of the duty belt coming undone,
the gun’s muzzle hitting the plastic tabletop.
My heart peaks but my breath softens and slows.
The manipulated breathing is a tool, a skill
that one must perfect in order to be here.
It must be utilized well to eavesdrop on the scenes
you never observe with your eyes.
It must be utilized well to uncover the truth
you never truly wanted to know.
I do not swallow, I cannot.
I lean closer, and as gently as I came,
walk on my toes up the stairs
to employ another tool:
the erasing of memory
through the torture of the body
at the bathroom sink.

I Am Not Trash

If you don’t like tattoos, don’t get one.

It saddens me that tattooed people, though slowly being accepted, are still considered social pariahs. There are valid reasons for this of course. Yes, most convicts are heavily tattooed. A person’s class level, I will admit, can usually be estimated by what their tattoo is and where it is placed on the body. However, ink cannot tell you the whole story.

People who disapprove of body art instantly reject the “it means a lot to me” statement from tattooed people. If it means a lot to you (whatever “it” may be), they say, why can’t you keep it in your memories, or paint it, or so on. And to those who are considering getting a lover’s name or a loved one’s portrait, I would err on the side of caution and take this advice. Who knows how relationships, whether they be familial, romantic or platonic, will change. Yet in the end only YOU can determine if it is skin worthy. You are the one who has to undergo the tattooing and carry the design with you the rest of your life.

I could have kept my body a tabula rasa. I have both the quote and the picture I have tattooed in books. There was no true need to place them on my body. Yet to just carry around these designs on paper was not enough for me. Getting them permanently etched unto my skin allows me to express my devotion and appreciation in ways that words could not. The fact that neither artist will see my tattoos is irrelevant to me. I know they are there, I know Ginsberg and Dylan have changed my life, I know I have proof.

So there is my “it means a lot to me” sentiment. However, in my situation, being tattooed has meant vastly more than just getting a little something because I like it. Being tattooed has been a journey of self-discovery and self-love. My body has taken quite the beating over the years and it is beginning to show the wear-and-tear…scars, dents, dimples. There have been times where I hated my body more than I thought I could hate anything. Yet on the days when I’m having difficulty looking in the mirror, there are my tattoos: beautiful and interesting, permanent and protective, a bit like scar tissue. I feel proud. I don’t take the “walking art museum” quip as an insult. Good tattoo artists are no less talented than painters or graphic designers. My body can only be improved by their work. And no one else will have it. A rare art collection always carried around with me. When I can’t squeeze into my jeans, I can touch my pieces. Phew, they’re there, at least I have them.

I am an honors student and a damned hardworking one at that. I have never been to jail and I have never done hard drugs. So when you get the occasional peek at my shoulder and assume I’m white trash, I actually feel sorry for you. Your world will never expand. You will never meet half of the great people you could have met.

To drive the point home, here are some examples of perfectly respectable people with tattoos:
--Tattoos have been an important part of many cultures since the dawn of humanity. Otzi the Iceman, estimated to have lived 5300 years ago, had tattoos. The Maori tribe of New Zealand is famous for its decorative tattoos, as are many tribes of Laos, Cambodia, Malaysia, and Hawaii.
-- Both Winston Churchill and his mother had tattoos. His mother had a snake on her wrist, Churchill an anchor on his arm.
--Thomas Edison had 5 dots in a dice-like pattern on his arm.
--Many Russian Tsars had tattoos: Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, and Nicholas II.
--Ian McKellen has an Elvish design on his arm! He is the classiest guy in the world. If this doesn’t convince you that people with taste can have tattoos, I don’t know what will.

There is my defense of being tattooed. However I want to be clear: the decision to get a tattoo is a very serious one. Though removal is a possibility now, it is expensive and painful. Best way to avoid it? Don’t get a tattoo if you are a commitment phobe. If you’re dead-set on getting a tattoo, you must choose the absolute right one and be 100 percent sure. This is why I advise choosing a design that is not “narrow.” You may be really into one band, animal, or person at the moment, but can you honestly say to yourself “I will love this forever”? It is a simple question but it is oh so important. A tattoo is forever. Especially keep this in mind if you want to get one done in a visible place, such as your forearm or wrist. Once you have a design, I advise sitting on it for a few months. If you can think about the design 5 months later and still adore it, that’s a good indication that your design is “right” for you. Go to a certified clean space and remember, good tattoos aren’t cheap (unless you are lucky enough to have a parent of a friend like I was). And, I cannot stress this enough, if you are getting something done in a foreign language, get it checked and re-checked by native speakers! The internet is not your friend in this case. And white people, stay away from tribal tattoos you know nothing about. You’ll look like an idiot.

If you’re skeptical of tattoos, I can understand. I just hope that next time you’re in line at Circle K for gas and the person in front of you has tattoos from elbow to wrist, you think twice before assuming they sell dope. That could be Edison or Churchill, a loving dad or college professor. You never know.

Normal Rhythm

I haven't done a poem and poem post in a while. I wrote this poem about a year ago about an ex. The drizzling rain always reminds me of a pleasant memory with him. No hard feelings.

Unsurprisingly, I went with an ex-lover theme for today.

Here's mine. I'm fine with it as is, but I think maybe the ending isn't conclusive enough. My poetry teacher offered great advice: if you think you're done, write another line. I believe this poem needs that.

I hide away, your ghost in mind

I hide away, your ghost in mind
as I cross my legs in a dim Best Western room
in an ushanka, beer in hand.

Vision blurred, I can see you behind my eyes.
Your silhouette, far ahead, sauntering
through raindrops, with dog close by.

A glimpse outside reveals
a flickering McDonald’s arch
and the disappearance
of your drizzled silhouette.

No sweat entangled between us tonight.

But still as I sit, head in knees,
blood cells constricting in rye,
there is your apparition
on the curb
dog leash in hand
glancing back at me
waiting.

I'm usually more into contemporary poets, but I do hold some classic poets dear: John Donne, Shakespeare, Sappho, and above all Lord Byron. I think of him as the Bourdain of romantic poetry. Beautiful form with an edge.

When we two parted

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well--
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.