![]() EulogyA Poem by h d e rushin![]() for Lawrence Lee.![]() June 21 and the blood moon will be where we left it last. And you, quasi guitar player without a pick like Wess. Master relationship counselor with your black tongue and your prostate they took out in a jar beneath you. You relished the tall river bloom of David Ruffin, so much so, that you sat with your legs dangling over mythical cliffs and your konk parted; I can still see your amble: Arms thrusting the walker forward then dragging your body along with that jar of piss and blood, your holy punctuated twin scimitars. Unloved since the white girl found you laughing at her thighs and brought you home. "Cremation is for ignorant folk" you told us. Because what if they found liberty in the corpse like Lazarus, wrapped and flailing? What to do if there was no rotted body, or left unattended like the rose bush Angela let run wild since 07? And all those no-named weeds the slept in cracks but die in the canonical hour of sunset before the little child can grab hold? Enter Judgment: There is no more profit in being against the war. Vietnam is glassed over and restaurants that serve sweet drinks on the spot where Curtis refused to duck. Twice the hat sinks lower over your brow and two more times before they took the guitar you couldn't play and cornered it like a chastised child. So sir, gone now. Belonging to the framework of days. This rose bush is for you. This moon too. This smile we shared when the silvered blossom of you is remembered. I mean the literal jive mistryst of even the vaguest of blues we agreed on, ("let her go, you told me) along with these dim stars.
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Added on June 21, 2024Last Updated on June 21, 2024 Author
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