(c) John Robert Lee
Rites:
After Mosera
no news to me, news of my death
though telebituaries trace coordinates
of relative history
news-clips flatter their distortions
and those who loved me
research the corners
of archived regrets
fictions of our passings
to see the first passions
of hand-in-hand, intimate desires,
before we seduced ourselves
with stupid, silly
distractions —
no news to me, news of my
death
among the shades of Sheol.
in the end was the hating word
and that was that —
I knew the track to end the world
under the almonds
cruising scissor-tails
a beckoning horizon of veined ocean —
but you came, a curious brown heron
stood like a sea-stone on one foot
fixed me to your insistent life
until I let the fool of a man
go drown.
it wasn’t all needles and cracked hos
the far city, homeless under aqueducts
wrestling filthy strays over pizza boxes —
in the beginning, beautiful companions
jazz clubs, hit shows,
late-night coffee and smoke in penthouse studios
names and faces of the day, Basquiat on the wall
soap-opera romantics with heiresses
the predictable, worthless fantasies
— those who loved me I broke
under the guilt on my fatherless back.
Talitha, errant mythologies notwithstanding
truth be told, Mystery calls through traffic
and sound-systems of Jeremie Street
on Friday evening, looks over the shoulder
at you on the pedestrian crossing,
is the unknown number ringing your phone
in a bank queue —
when you fall beyond dream
into alien, torrid shadows
Mystery is the somehow familiar, tender wing
that lifts you to Himself.
Art by © Ras Mosera.
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