expresso vision

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.

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