there's a pulse, a beat
a rhythm that’s jagged and raw
dancing to the cadence of the streetlights.
it’s here in the hollows of the night
where words tumble out like dice
in a back alley craps game
where the poets huddle
over steaming cups of coffee, their
cigarettes making halos in the dim light.
it’s in the bloodstream of their verses,
in the thrumming of the city's veins, and
the way the night opens up like a beatnik’s Bible,
spilling out secrets in a language that’s half-sin, half-salvation.
the poets, they get it.
they speak in tongues that kiss the divine,
that wrestle with the infinite, caress the ineffable,
tease out the silver threads of connection
between the sidewalk and the stars.
they chant, these beat poets,
like monks who've traded their
silent vows for the syncopated prayers
of the jazz club—
thumping bass
the hi-hat's crisp whispers
the sax wailing, always wailing.
the mystic chase is there
in the alleys of consciousness
where the self dissolves like sugar in coffee,
bitter and sweet, we're all just seeking
the face of God in a smoky room,
in the reflection of a dingy bar spoon.
the road is the path and the path is a Möbius strip
twisting on itself, and the truth isn’t at the destination,
it’s smeared in the journey, smeared like ink on the poet’s tired hands.
they wrote like they were trying
to scratch the heavens open with the tip of a pen
let the divine light flood through the page,
turn the word into flesh, into something holy and trembling.
the page is the altar and the sacrifice
where they lay down their visions, their acid revelations,
peeling back the layers of material until they’re
face to face with the cosmic joke, the eternal 'ha, ha!’
and they don’t shy away, they dive headfirst
into the abyss, the void, where time collapses
like a cheap suit and space is just another word
for the distance between human hearts.
in the curling smoke, the flicker of neon,
the beat poets find the sacred, in the profane alleys,
the all-night diners, making mantras out of the mundane,
finding Nirvana in a worn-out shoe,
the Third Eye in a half-drunk bottle of
cheap red wine, spilling over sheets of tattered notebooks.
and we, the readers, the wanderers, the seekers,
we listen for the beat, the rhythm beneath their words,
a heart that’s pounding out the message—
break free, break through, break open.
let the inside out, let the mystic in, let the poetry
do its ancient, eternal work.
in the beat, there’s truth, and in that truth,
there's the spark—the divine spark that burns,
always burns, in the core of us all.
