I went to look up the word epiphany instead, searched ‘bob hicok’, read poetry about no meaning on meaning only meaning somehow yes and maiming and jokes about bars and don’t answer when someone says: knock knock. The epiphany is here in the gooey blood seeping under the saran wrap on my forearms. The tattoos are whispering over my yelling skin. I adore the subtle pain. There is so much meaning in the black ink in the choice for permanence in the art on my arms. The tattoo artist told me someone told him he had no value as an artist. I told him that person is wrong and fu*k him. And fu*k that. Humans can’t exist without art. Especially art that maims a soul just to get it out of the body. Bleeding is necessary for creativity. Just ask anyone who has a body. Yes, in the epiphany is a welcoming choice that is long overdue – years of shadowing and now the shadow steps into itself and says: it doesn’t matter if only you understand me. We’re in this together. We always have been.
Thank you, Dorothy for connecting me to Bob Hicok’s poetry. Yay!