the last word.

according to family legend,
my first word was tattoo.
i'm not makin' that up.
in fact,
well before i ever considered even getting one,
let alone doing them for a livin',
the story was firmly in place as factual reporting from the homefront.
that's some vanilla sky cultivation of coincidence right there,
i'm sayin'....
it's a story that resonates vaguely of ballbag,
like a quick whiff whilst scratchin' your chin,
before you remember you had your hand on your precious cargo only just moments earlier...
a secret universal plan blueprint,
a preordained pathway, even,
but still,
it's kind of balls.
which is to say,
a mixed blessing.
equal parts vulnerablility and invincibility,
fertile expanses of legacy-sprouting hot fiery funkiness,
and also sparsely squiggle-haired chewed gum clamminess.
people up here use the term "balls" as both a superlative compliment,
and a derisive condemnation...
which is pretty much how i view my relationship with my mode of employment.
i wouldn't want to do much else, i can tell you surely,
but i still refuse to have to be 100% happy about it.
of course,
the idea of precognizant premonitions as a wee lil'un
makes me feel a little better about barreling down the path i'm on.
manifest destiny's child, ya'll.
waaaaay too bootylicious for ya, huh?

yesterday,
i did a tattoo of a cowboy hat wearin' eyeballed skull,
...with a mullet.
like i said;
balls.
in so many many ways.
you already know how they're hangin';
never quiet, never soft...