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All the Places


by Darryl Price


we went to together are now, according to
you, not to be believed. A memory of a
thought of a memory, of an arrow. There is

no earth. There is no sun. There are no stars. All the
places we went to together are to be paused,
allowed to fade into never. The river is 

to be hidden from view. Overgrown by an unfriendly 
wild ride of leaves and spiders. All the places 
we went to together are to be drained of 

their magic and filled in with choking dirt, cobbled 
over with rough stone and sticks. But, you see, as John 
once put it: I think I disagree. I think I 

will always disagree. Because, your own beauty, 
rounded by profundity and shaped by all winds,
mighty and tender, does not neatly compare the 

locked cage to a free sense of being. I believe
all the places we went to together are still
always willing to be found again; though they may 

appear in different guises, they will be recognized 
by the heart, accepted by the mind, welcomed by
the body. As in any good dream, love 'wakens. 



Bonus poems:



Cherry Life Saver

by Darryl Price


The sleepy head tells the bitter truth. It doesn't hide its wonders to behold because it doesn't have to do anything but love things as they are. The sleepy head 
hasn't lied to anyone yet. The sleepy head still smells of a cherry life saver. 
For some unknown reason. I don't need to question why there's no anger left on 
my side. The sleepy head would be a nice final word for somebody. But poets 

are just no good at letting things go by unnoticed. The sleepy head gives the sun 
its rare chance to curl up and snooze. And it looks so content doing so, 
doesn't it? Almost real. The sleepy head is sweeter than honey. Its curls are slowly unfurling like leaves, dragging out the dream light. Leaving sparks. The sleepy head will 
rise, and when it does, the sky will fall on me. 

The sleepy head doesn't see me cover up that pain. The sleepy head may never 
let me shut the door, to tears, fade away, only wanting to hold on. The 
sleepy head like a rose. The sleepy head drenched in dew. The sleepy head takes
everything from me, now and forever. The sleepy head silently waves, goodbye. Goodbye, goodbye. The 
sleepy head ignoring my plea. My hurt. Here's your ticket. Sir. Take it and get found by somebody who loves you.     



You Know What Will Happen

by Darryl Price


Here there is rain. You know 
how people are. They drive 
around like maniacs. 
Everyone's on a phone 
now, walking, eyes down, slow, 
along the side of the
 
road or eating in a 
restaurant window, doesn't 
matter. Like I said, 
rain. Two red birds on a 
wet porch. I only mention 
this because it has 

become somewhat unusual. 
At least in my 
neighborhood. You know what 
will happen if just one 
madman decides to drop 
his biggest bomb in the
 
middle of the silent 
night. More rain, this rain, is 
kind of friendly. It has 
a heartbeat. I suppose 
that's unusual too. 
I think I've got the blues.
 
I'm pretty sure it's why 
I feel so lonesome. The 
rain has not let up. It's 
been pretty steady, like 
the fan at the end of 
an engine. And yet, you 

could say, something's burning, 
doubting everything. You 
can smell it in the air. 
Why do we choose to say 
air instead of wind? Are 
we trying to pretend
 
something? I think this rain 
is telling me to stop 
pretending. You know what 
will happen if you read
this with forgiveness
as light; we'll be alright. 



Goofy-Looking People With Normal-Looking Dogs

by Darryl Price


You need to make a noise to have anyone hear 
anything you have to say. It's all there, in the 
one size fits all wind. Like fire. In the mind. Like ice. In the 
eye. Like sun. In the stardust vibrations. Around 

us. In the cloak and dagger silence. Choose your own 
level and go meet it with the appropriate 
gifts in hand. Make a noise by yourself, for someone 
to love; they will understand. You need to make a 

noise to let everyone know what it is you are 
offering. It's there. In the broken heart shaped rain. In 
the spirit sparkle of soft tall grasses. In the new 
circumstance found at the tops of trees. Then maybe
 
moonlight. You need to make a noise. Nothing is that 
simple. Like a circle then. Forget fences. With 
whatever's available. And true. You need to 
make a noise that says, I carry on, I'll carry 

on with you, I carry on. With or without resistance. 
You make a lovely, warm noise next to me, even 
if you're sleeping with him a million physical 
miles away, I will always wave to you. That's what this 

is, what it's always been. Celebration. I'm here, 
enjoying your generous, natural presence 
in the disconnected present mindset of my 
little room with yet another poem. Without cure.  



No Shit Sherlock

by Darryl Price


If you're out there, I hope 
you're okay. Love was slain. If 
you're out there, I hope you're 
happy now. Love was slain and 
many good men were killed. If 
you're out there, I need your
 
help. Love was driven into the 
hallowed ground and vanished in the 
smoking soil like trickling rain. The 
whole picture keeps trying to come 
back to me in a dream, 
in dream pieces, like with a 

damnable cardboard puzzle in a box. If you're out 
there, make no mistake, I survived, 
but barely escaped with my life. 
Merlin was killed, too, without mercy, 
by a gang of wicked, laughing 
monks, hell-bent on keeping the lie 

buried in a vault of sins. 
They would rather torch the sleeping 
town down than admit to being 
wrong, or worse, that they committed 
the rusty nails themselves to the 
innocent flesh. If you're out there, 

please hear my voice. It's all 
I have left to reach you 
with. To tell you you're love 
is still real to me. Love 
was slain,  but still it stirs
within every strewn rock and broken tree.



   
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