Every year about this time a poem like this demands to be written. Take it for what its worth....Perhaps as a cautionary tale.....

TATTOOS AND ATTITUDE

Tattoos and attitude
And a menacing gangsta glare
Into the camera.
A hand across your chest,
Index finger and pinky extended
Some kind of hip-hop sign
Intelligible to only the initiate:
Rock on, or maybe ward off
The evil eye, or what else?
And the obligatory plastic cup
In the other hand, full of suds.

I don’t know if it’s because
You want people to think
You’re a certified badass.
“Sleeves” they call them,
Shoulder to wrist awash
In blue and black ink
With symbols arcane
And magic numbers
Atop each hand;
The obligatory “love”
“Hate” needled into the knuckles
Of each finger.

What does all this mean,
These decorations on arm,
Hand and neck? I can only
Guess what’s on torso and legs
Hundreds, no thousands of dollars
Worth of work, you would
Make a wizened convict proud,
The tats of a lifer,
Without any of the lifer’s
Experience to go with it.
Badass or poser,
You tell me which.

Have you thought at all
About the why?
Is it to look menacing?
To attract chicks,
Or to etch the story of your life
On your body so the other adepts
Can read it, much as dogs
Sniff at fireplugs,
So that they know who or what’s
Going down in the ‘hood?
At least with tattoos,
No one leaves a story of their own
On your arms after they
Have read the news.

Or are you a scared little boy still,
Wrapping himself up in ink
So the world can’t guess how alone
And empty you are inside?
So that people would look at you
And be awed, and keep their distance
Because you look like some kind
Of postmodern Godfather.

One such as you
Admitted to me once
That he defaced himself
Because he was aware
Of his youth and beauty
And wanted to keep
The perverts away.
Is there some of that going on?
I don’t know why you worry.
You’re beyond the age
That perverts would find interesting-
That was over a long time ago.

And have you thought of entropy?
As the body ages, it sags,
As sure as death and taxes,
And eventually no amount
Of exercise can stem that tide.
What will all that wonderful ink
Look like on a seventy year old?
I’ve seen sad old criminals
Whose ink looks more like Dali’s clocks
Than whatever they meant it
To look like back in the day,.
You might have kids,
Who might, in the fullness of time,
Give you grandkids.
What will you tell them?
Do you think they’ll be impressed?
One final thought….all this ink
Has it helped you
Land any JOBS recently?

The reason all this comes to mind
Is that a generation or so ago
I knew a boy,
Clear of arm,
Torso undefiled,
Eyes bright, but not chemically so,
Mind sharp and uncluttered.
I knew this boy,
And I’m not ashamed to admit
That I loved him.
Take it for what it’s worth,
Any way you want to.
One August night,
Our world exploded,
And that big bang
Was ever so destructive
Reaching people
Who never expected to be touched
By such things
Tearing worlds apart
And strewing the debris
Over millions of square miles
Of emotional territory
Or so it seemed then,
And so it is now.

Why did this happen?
Foolishness, ego, and evil.
Agendas all over the place
I’ll never reconcile myself
To the obvious answers
It’s too complicated
And people will never
Admit ulterior motives
Maybe even never be aware of them.
I’ve learned a thing or three since then:
Things are never as simple as they look,
People can be dumb, or just shifty,
And there’s always something
Going on under the surface.
Trying to tease out motives
Is interesting, but in the end
A fool’s errand, that prevents
Me from the important task
Of picking up the pieces
And starting all over again.

About the tattoos, just one more thing:
Just because you don’t see any on me
Doesn’t mean that they’re not there.
Some people get tattooed on the inside
But not with bathing beauties
Or occult symbols, or fun stuff,
But with pain, remorse, regret,
An overriding sense of loss
And the sure knowledge of the harm
I’ve done to those I claim to love most,
Yourself and me included.
My tattoos are no less permanent,
Etched, I daresay, much deeper,
On my soul,
And the pain of that damnable art
Being applied…I can’t imagine
A tattooist’s needle hurting worse.
And the bitch??? The bitch is
This pain never goes away.

-Chip Bergeron
4 August 2013