Unadorned
Aug 13 2009


His body reminds me of scrimshaw,
ivory skin
inscribed in fine black lines,
every square inch
carved, whittled, etched
heiroglyphed and limned
in brilliant India ink.

Just a glimpse
beneath a rim of cuff;
the intricate wrist
when his sleeve rides-up.
The face and hands
left blank,
an open book
in which the viewer sees what he wishes.

At the beach
he is a spectacle —
impish kids
run up, compulsively touching;
thuggish adolescents
interrupt their horseplay
to ogle, call him names;
and sun-bathing babes
reach-up to adjust their shades,
look down their noses.

The tattooed man
is proud of his art,
parades his body
unselfconsciously,
cannot bear
leaving any part
unadorned.
To most of the world
he is grotesque,
almost indecent.
But he feels brilliant, immortal.
He feels like a sailor
far out to sea —
filling time in the doldrums,
setting-down his story,
writing love letters home
in indelible ink.

He will grow old.
His canvas will sag and wrinkle,
his beautiful art
become incomprehensible.
And 6 feet under
he will slowly decompose,
refuting the conceit of the artist
who preserves his words between the covers,
who carves his vision in bone.
Reminding me
that our art so rarely out-lives us;
that we send it off into the world
and then must relinquish control.