crusty eyes
cracked open
night before breath
pounding temples
twisted guts
but still
a smile
as little chaotic moments
come flooding back
in flashes
then
shoulder pain
blood on the sheet
mixed with black ink
—jump
—run
to the mirror . . .
©2021—JDCIV
*author’s note: This is a poem based on a story that my Pop told me. It’s about a biker he used to know in Colorado, whose nickname was “Big Terry” because he was seven feet tall. They and a few others went out one night and got drunk. Then decided they all wanted tattoos. When it was Big T’s turn, he wanted a crescent moon with a smiling face, but he passed out in the chair. The tattoo artist thought it would be funny to put a little dick as the nose on the moon man’s face. Everyone was so drunk, no one even noticed! When he woke up and saw it the next day, he went back and almost killed the guy before making him cover it with a black cloud. Though, his friends never let him forget that just one dick sneeze from the man in the moon would blow that cloud away. I can only wonder what the hell possessed the tattoo artist to pull a permanent “prank” like that on a seven-foot-tall biker in the first place, but that is some funny shit.
Drunk on Metaphors 