by Darryl Price
We were always blowing stale enough air into each other's faces from the smallest
roundest tables available looking at each other sideways at the same sad time as the puppet show now being
played out with mostly different young actors doing their best posing
to look like perfectly dashed upon the rocks adults in mid-flight from death's honking taxi.
I've never understood this familiar allure. Why would you ever want to
sell yourself so short for so much less than you already have so beautifully going on?
That's what gets us to keep on ordering more disposable stuff I
suppose. If we appear drunk with enough riches they won't notice
how we once belonged up there, too, found to be actually worthy, examined fully
under the close moonlight, brought to a clear enough view to the audience under scattered starlight; now
no longer a wonderful, tender surprise to anyone. Is it better
for me then to be left alone in this time-locked darkly bunched and lighted
murderous thought cove of my own? If , the one who can't seem to forget you and
the one who only wants to, we finally slump off our polished little
toadstool seats together, might we find that early morning's mirror just a bit
too lost romantic to be believed in so directly again anytime soon? Grab me a pair of cheap sunglasses, quick!
But then there's the stark stumble in yet another springlike zombie
state, walk away, as last time. The funny thing is how
often the welcome all door perpetually opens up like a magic
brick in an ordinary passed by wall, time and time, again and again. We're
pulled into its swirling watery presence by its strangest pulsating musical tides. We're
pulled under by the prerequisite stench of so many dreams being
lit on fire at once and then carelessly abandoned to the pull of the latest fleeting blacklight. It's nothing you did.
I'd already turned a meant to be shade of crimson blue
a long long time ago. I came into this world already bent over the
battered guitar's deeply tattooed body like a broken tree branch, cremating my own talented cornershop to send my
tortured soul tunes happily through its windows and down the dirty unwashed streets and out into any and all traffic to come. If you ever leaned in close enough
you'd have already seen a wounded but one still trying to fly bird
who was really no different than the hidden and scratched instruments
freely played against the blackened walls like so many other crying shadows
that come and go on a daily basis. The strings ran like live wire right
through me, my fingers played as if broken, as if dipped
in a lonesome cup of their own, washed ashore on a
beach among the driftwood's last stand,waiting for the rare
chance to fade away. To have meant something again in the melting.
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I hate when things are even remotely boring. Everything can become a crushing bore, but more than that, there is the endless going on about it that just leaves you numb and thankless. I think the early poets had it right--a penstroke, a nod,a slight escaping sound, a parting of grasses, of stars, a deep yet not stolen look, a meaningful moment of real presence being honored by another more human end of oneself, before the few carefully applied words. Unfortunately I'm not like that. I talk and talk and talk, hoping for my voice to switch over to singing, but mostly it just grunts and groans until it sputters out again.