Crack Talk

Another drowsy day hits my hands as I sit perchance waiting for some iron man to shake me away from my slumber. I remember the days in Manipal where I ran and sat and swept through days in laze surrendering daily to smoky haze and I’d watch everyone walk to class leaving me alone with my insanity. In my room I’d draw pipe dreams which I’d mail to myself through clammy old paper. Read another book drink another beer and leer and cheer at the kids going and coming from their classrooms with empty eyes and empty smiles. Everyone thinking of how proud they’re making daddy while daddy’s working sweat and bones for a shallow throne on which to sit his son and when he asks dad what’s the point he’ll say boy I thought you’d know it. Maybe that’s why they send us fools to schools thinking we’ll see something they couldn’t. Well anyway I could care less for even I’m prejudiced and I know that.

I think of runnin away to Goa again my vivacious mistress. Her golden sands were my ultimate romance. I’d waltz through her with my skinny bones on display. And my eyes would catch a beautiful girl and I’d smile and she’d do the same and by god she knew what she was doin holidayin with my hope. So I’d walk away and sit at Curlies order myself another round of king’s beer. I’d look around watchin the eyes of the old and new age hippies smoking their chillums with reverence like some unholy god perched tween its stones. Then someone would see me through my careless long hair and pass over to me his loaded lit scepter and I’d raise it over my head and cry boom and set the warm stone to my blackened lips. Then with breath I could never breathe otherwise I’d puff with lungs of a dragon draggin in the whole of eternity in one bombarding heave of my chest and I’d see heaven and hell as my lungs swell and I’d see the battle of troy to the mutiny of the sepoys in the foamy smoke that I slowly dispelled. Letting my mind play god with the sudden thick white blindness in the air only to be cheerfully woken from my trance by the music that eternal slumber itself defines. So I walk over to edge of the steps canyoning over each other. Dance the art in movement seizes me by the bones and it releases me to the heavens as I spin and yarn the air around me with the turns and sways and plays of my desperate figure. My skin bursts into infinity and I feel the lashes of freedom that is eternal pouring elixir down my spine and rejuvenated by the ecstasy of his throbbing brilliance I dance for him. Him that is the void that Kerouac spoke of. Him the flower that Tagore wrote of. Him who by the death of us all shall still remain and will gather our brokenness and digest our pains and tell us how it was all the same every emotion that we devoured were all the same and THAT was the trick of the game.