You were a sharp blade looking
for someone to cut,
I was tanned virgin skin begging for tattoos
and we met on the corner
of Insanity and Rebellion,
a busy corner, bustling with
hookas, hunger and martyrs
with handkerchiefs bleached white.
Did I ask or did you just assume?
Happily scarred, baby tattoos
and milk running down MOTHER,
we stroll down memory lane,
where the martyrs now wear
their hankies as bibs, handing out
tracts for AIDS, Jesus and the locations
of local marijuana stores that give out
free samples of drug-laced chocolate.
Abstinence is our religion these days,
your rusted blade on the wall like art,
my skin blue and white.
When we do talk, it's like strangers
meeting on a busy corner, confused
about where to cut, where to kiss,
how to keep this working.
Someone removed all the signs.