Goodbye, Blue Monday

by James Riley

at the tattoo parlor
i overhear Tom
the tattoo artist
talking about writing
with this curly-haired girl in his chair.
she’s sitting next to me
as i wait for Tre
to size my stencil
and i’m thinking she might go to Berkeley,
and she’s looking at Tom
with these wide, wincing eyes
as he stabs through her skin
and babbles into her ear
about how Hemingway was shit,
and everyone writing today is, too,
shit,
all of ‘em,
and i notice this girl with the curly hair
close her eyes,
but i don’t think Tom does
because he keeps rolling along,
denouncing one author
or style
or time period
as “shit”.
“YOU HAVE TO BE SHIT TO SELL THESE DAYS!”
Tom snarls
and there’s Marlboro on his breath and beard,
and this girl with the curly hair,
eyes still shut,
every once in awhile
i watch as she bites her lip
and bobs her head
in agreement with the words,
while Tom’s ink bleeds from the lines
she had thought
she wanted
before they began to sting.