The Cracks
4-2-06
I.
Living between each-other’s cracks,
my insides are massaged by
these impermanent curves.
Still, my thirst is never satiated.
Let woman be nigger.
Let man be nigger.
Let child be nigger.
Let loving black family be nigger.
Let starving, sick Africa
(that shines in the fallen echo of Eden,
green and gold and wealthy, but dying
because beauty cannot buy food or love)
be nigger.
We are living, we are dying,
inside each-other’s cracks.
and in five years, this pain can only become harsher.
II.
It fades to the humdrum,
Bum-bum ching! goes the ash
goes the gold, fueling another day’s addiction,
as innocent dreams revert to ash.
Space-ships fly so far, parallel
boys competing in the woods
over whose piss flies farther,
This is the melting pot,
this is life!
One moment, so loud
the next, a funeral-procession.
But it fades to the hum-drum,
we lived on the very top floor
& know it falls, too, into that grand Sadness.
III.
Sand is blown
over wide, crinkly dunes
that catch the sun-light,
divide its strength, and fracture its message
into endless, blowing sand.
I can’t stand the Humdrum.
Yet on the other side of this sleepy barroom conversation,
tragedy lies defeated, and nirvana-man
sings silently to himself as I babble,
he cherishes the eternal inescapable beauty
that I perceive as God’s most sadistic joke.
Inside his mind, love scissors through fear
and he’s the true poet,
recording the beauty that’s so breath-taking,
celebrating the life-times that pass quietly by
and screaming in victory
that “heaven is real,”
“life is good,”
“love is the way,”
and “Heaven is on Earth!”
with every ounce of himself, every moment.
He dreams of beautiful oceans,
celebrating the bewilderingly-fantastic freedoms
of living between the cracks.
