Author: Justin Lee Parker

Because of the plaques,
I wouldn’t wear black.
It shouldn’t prevent us, brothers.
Keep checking the mirror
And brush off your shoulders.
Rely on the blindness of others.

“Dieu veut, Dieu veut,”
but what does God want?
We ponder the IX of the ichthys:
The sign of the fish
and the wheel of bread—*
The feel of the psora invictus.

I took an injection,
Provided protection,
Delivered the comfort I needed.
Erasing the marks,
I returned to the dark
to tend to the sorrows I seeded.

Dieu m’a dit:
Sois pêcheur,
So n’ayez pas peur.
You were born as a fish, but no more.**
I am building a man
With the skill of my hand,
Delivering that which I swore.
Stop breathing in water—
You’re ready for drinking.
Start moving your arms;
You’re steadily sinking.
The ocean is large;
The fishes are schooling—
Keep watch on the lines I’m unspooling.

Because of the itch,
The fisherman’s rich.
We gather his netfuls of brothers.
As some would suggest,
At Jesus’ behest,
We float on his prayers, and others.

*Revisiting the Ichthys: A Suggestion Concerning the Origins of Christological Fish Symbolism by Tuomas Rasimus

**Brady Traywick, Calling Others

I couldn’t
hold
myself back

The beauty of our afternoons
left me biting at the air
The evening discovery
like a lake full of laughter
shared without speaking
The glad tidings communicated
by king’s edict
into the silence
under water

I hope you find this message
and kiss me, your brother,
within the gates of the
crystal city
as we dance our
flying freedom song
like flags and
fountains, both filled and flowing,
both water and air

Exo exo aye
No supper tonight
But high-sided advice
Upon this I dine regularly
It is no feast for the eyes
But the mind grows strong and fat
and flatulent

To die right is one way to
celebrate the night
And so I slide
off of the horse, take off my robe, and
slouch away to bed to
pray that for such a
time as this
I am appointed
to have my head removed
for approaching the king
within his gates
and at his invitation

How he honors me
In holding back his hand

Haman was not hanged:
he starved to death

Scarves towed by wind

Pull all heads back and up

The sky is filled with

Looking-glass light

Scales balanced by this type

of sight cannot yet support

the true exchange of goods—

this ideal Plato might have liked

Like cruise control to gasoline, this image
maintained by fantasy,
built on recent echoes still flatly shouting fortune,
burning equal parts honesty and oil,
a viscous opportunity which circles in succession,
sparked by the impulse to rest —
to find the end of fighting and
soak up delicious soup
with the certainty of safe travels, warm blankets,
no need for roadside assistance

Where do you store
a secret horde
of curiosity?
Is it formed by instinct or art?
What gives a question its engine,
entices the ego to dive into thought?

While,
at the end of the night
my mind has to
pull and to
grip at its
plight

If the gravity’s right,
it’s an easy decision:
I don’t have to fight the syncretic collisions
Free radicals formed between daytime and eve
neglect their existence —
I land a reprieve
My feet can take flight with the greatest precision:
I learned it by watching television

I used to count the lamps along my route
And lift myself above the window’s edge
to see inside the government

We used to walk together,
climb the fire escapes we weren’t supposed to climb,
higher and faster and farther

We used to dance and hop and tease
the dogs who met us on the street
We were frisky, happy pups

***

It’s overcast this afternoon
And people carry bags of food
Got nothing for this hungry dog
Not even in a playful mood

Can’t lift my head to count these lamps
No mind to learn the legal code
No strength to climb up to the sky
Don’t recognize this road

He was going to enlist
in the army of the West
But couldn’t pass the test

He was going to defeat
all the enemies of state
But couldn’t hold the weight

He was going to invest
in the color of his shirt
But couldn’t dig the dirt

Now I’m going to retreat,
no more courage in my heart
Cause I couldn’t play the part

The secret jewel of the menu,
The chefs all know
But no one ever speaks
Out loud,
Keeping quiet behind the fire

This heady brown liquor,
Drowning soft richness of
Egg noodles
Each bite is desire
Rekindled

Your savory, vegetal flavors
Fill me like a drunkard,
Warm and sated,
They wash through me like water
Reminding me of nothing,
Wherein I am eternally, forever present

Beef lo mein,
If fortune favors the brave,
Then what am I
Most fortunate of all
To have found you
Here
Now
In this moment?

She doesn’t care about sleep
She’s better than me; she
can’t forget
My hands tied wrist to wrist around her waist, but we stand
back to back, she
trades me the cold heap of hot potato
we each found upon the floor that night,
when it grew darker than a summer sunset

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