Rainbow Warts in a Mandala

She said she would tattoo me on my knee and I said okay … she and her younger sister held me down while she worked the tattoo gun … and it didn’t hurt (not much anyway) … and anyway, I liked the way she held me … and later there were rainbow warts in a mandala on my knee, and we sat around in a larger circle and tried to interpret the signs on my knee (like tea stains in a cup on a Saturday morning November '67, or the 64 hexagrams of the I Ching) … and anyway, I liked the way she held me, the Rodeo Queen in the pickup that night riding back from the Kow Bell while her mother wasn’t looking, and it was okay because I was 16 … and the next morning they made a movie based on a script I’d written, but it was frustrating because a thousand things kept me from writing the climax (bills to pay, tax forms and job applications to fill out, that sort of thing) … and later, I was singing in a barbershop quartet with the three lovely girls, but one (the youngest) kept putting the tattooed sole of her foot in my face but I’m not really in to that sort of thing and winced a bit, though she was young and beautiful and her chin was tattooed purple and pink—anyway, she meant well … we swung on a swing set we four while singing, but I was out of sync with the other three, but that was okay because I was the only one singing in tune … and while they were singing-and-swinging too low, I was singing-and-swinging so high … yes I could fly … and fly over mountains, and stay suspended like a trapeze artist in the deep-purple upper atmosphere for a very long time … and that was okay because it was in the deep dark of the morning when no one else could see … and we were only 16 … (DREAM, 3/6/12)