i never had much regard
for portraits done up
in ink;
though that can be blamed
on ill-experience.

my x-boss (a mangorgeousan,
who towered with his own humble pulchritude)
had his mother framed on
the smooth rise of his
upper arm, the glowing copperskin
of his shoulder.

she might have been
the most beautiful woman in morocco:
still, she shattered
the flagstones of his elegance.

and once
when we were both
bending over, our faces in
the oven, I had a sudden apercu:
a glance at his grinning matron that
gave me urge to
sink my fangs into her fangs
and carry away a mouthful of his flesh

another occasion
greatly startled me:

a man, drunk past his age
lying in the liquor and bumbling
as if though a tangled field of
poppies, ivy and rye,
spoke to me in confidence

in the back of the club, he reached down
unzipped his jeans (shoving them down as if they were
potato sacks), turned, bent over
and showed me a comedy central face.

George Lopez

tattooed, like a tramp stamp, above his
canyon crack

"this is why you
never go to seedy inkparlours
when you be drunk,"
he intoned wisely, slapping
his thighs with
his bratwurst fingers

and then he
fell over; and I
joined back in on the frenzy
epileptic and slightly



"I want you tattooed on my ass,
So I can sit on your face