When Michael-X Steals a Tape Recorder at Mound Correctional and Feels Like a Man

There’s no tellin’ what he’ll do
with a tattoo gun
the steady hum, because
its spring-loaded action
makes music to his ears,
drips ink from a guitar string
& sing sings, more than
bullet holes or
his nolo contendre
now that he’s an artist
penning what?
“East Side Gangsta”
on someone else’s neck
and a tear drop
fleck (or two)
beneath his brother’s eye,
the permanence, the stain,
more ghetto than any
jury of his peers recalling
from their notes each
eye-witness account
placing him at the scene.