Sharrif Simmons
Workers for the pearl
Workers for the pearl
In these right angle rooms that imitate the square
we come to abrupt conclusions
What can be more innocent than
a useless tear?
It falls
crashing into the vacuum of time capsules
propelling facts and myth into your fading conscious
you hold onto a passing brick wall
as each red stone slips from your grip
so does the need to make your life-long dreams fit
into the digits of six
you forget to be a
kind christian
a good catholic
an atheist
a baptist
a jehovah´s witness
a muslim
a jew
I watch you dive naked off of the platform of existence
and land into the pool of being
without swimming
without drowning
without speaking
only being
With your eyes closed you float downstream
Whispering softly in your ear is the pearl:
Welcome you precious spirit
Let us hold you in these golden moments
So many of us have called them poems
Keep riding your silent riverbend
You´ll make it home
But home has seen hand grenades being tossed into cafés
turning silence into shrieking virgins to be sacrificed
on the front lines
Militia men
armed with shark teeth and mac10s
insisting their problems exist in urban settings
they launched a raid on public housing
244,000 backwoods crackers
taking the Brooklyn
Tri-boro
and Manhattan bridges
as ignorant as the voting masses
their attacks camouflage their true enemy
the guiltless rich
who figure:
Let them kill themselves
Those niggers, crackers and spics
Our millions from oil and dead babies will never
reach their bleeding mouths
so let them continue
And in your ear whispers the pearl:
What could be more innocent than a useless tear?
It falls
crashing through fourteen mirrors
reflecting infinite possibilities
seven crossroads leading to 49 commandments
yet they gave you only 10
spread across TVs
and pressed up on compact discs
who are you now
if not a worker for the pearl
defiled by the diamonds as you look
toward the east
Please forgive us Blue Mother
Black Foot
Little Elk
Geronimo
the Crazy Horse has run through the Midwest
and has now settled on the coasts,
america, she´s shaking,
burning in the golden moments
so many of us
have called them
poems.