The Spring Cricket Repudiates His Parable of Negritude

Hell,

we just climbed. Reached the lip

and fell back, slipped

and started up again––

climbed to be climbing, sang

to be singing. It's just what we do.

No one bothered to analyze our blues

until everybody involved

was strung out or dead; to solve

everything that was happening

while it was happening

would have taken some serious opium.

Seriously: All wisdom

is afterthought, a sort of helpless relief.

So don't go thinking none of this grief

belongs to you: Even if

you don't know how it

feels to fall, you can get my drift;

and I, who live it

daily, have heard

that perfect word

enough to know just when

to use it––as in:

Oh hell. Hell, no.

No ––

this is hell.