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A Glowing Blue Bone


by Darryl Price


Sometimes the only music I want to hear is silence. 
Don't get me wrong. I like noise. Certain noises make 
me glad to be alive. But right now, I'm content 
waiting with the rain and the hum of everything in 
the rain, including me, running to my car, but getting 

soaked anyway. Maybe I deserved to get rained upon. Moot 
point. It already happened. I didn't hurry home. I looked 
at the rain on my windshield as a strange and 
beautiful kind of writing. What could it be saying now
that it hasn't been saying all along for thousands of 

brutal or beautiful years, but we have all been here 
before. And now, here I sit, dry as a bone, 
typing another poem. The funny thing is, I don't know 
who it is to, but I do know it is 
for you. Let's not go into it too deeply. All 

poems have a mystery at the center of them, waiting 
to be surely found and carried away. The only basket 
capable enough to hold it in is the heart. I 
didn't invent that. Some fox did. I'm pretty sure of 
that. But again, moot. I tried putting on some Dylan 

to flood in the empty spaces in my alone brain, 
but it appeared into my unsung snug luxury like an 
unwanted cymbal crash. I like cymbals, don't you, but sometimes 
they just need to tone it down a bit. I'm 
only trying to think or feel or just be in 

the raw moment without a plan for some cosmic reconstructed 
Deja vu later on. I'm sure it's to be a 
mighty delicious high for you, but couldn't we just share 
something together like a delightful spark? I don't know what 
else to say. To everyone I've ever known, you were 

important to me, even if I never said I love 
you. Everything is the same story, just different players, different 
places, different times, all masquerading as the first and the 
only one. Every day, I almost forget how to fly,
but then I remember your face. No. Don't talk now. 
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