dear gang member:

you are my deconstructive era:
the deconstruction of
per-son-al-ity,
of the teardrop permanently
attached in black ink to
the space between tear duct
and cheek's apple.

i am your neoclassic era:
the result of hours not spent opening
nostrils to lines of snow
or to the delicate slice of knife
versus neck versus vein
no longer felt, too bad,
too bad --

ignored except in second glance
where the inscription on your arm
blazes into the memory of my eye,
causing curiosity until the
next moment of flavored smoke,
a laugh, and a smile.