"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 just when to use it, as in, oh, hell.
Hell, no.
No, this is hell."