All the Young Angel Head Dudes

by Darryl Price

I don't think you understand. A  sad boy 
doesn't just die inside, slowly he becomes 
withdrawn from certain types of lovely 
youthful reasoning out loud, accustomed 
to feeling what is expected of him 
to be allowed to survive another
day.The missing goes on. You're allowed to 
get bored with being bored, the obvious. 
We can't wait. We don't know what we're waiting 
for. Boys are targeted everytime they 
must run or fly. You think you understand. 
We were beautiful. Unconditional 

love is all for you and yours, not me, and 
not for us. All things are speaking whether 
they can defend themselves against your sharp 
relentless onslaught or not. I don't think 
you understand. Boys will never leave you 
to suffer like the bastard men of means.
Things here are alive even if their green 
angel heads are not all the way up the 
elevator dream shaft to the sun and 
moon's kingdom's revolving restaurant at 
the end of the next world. It doesn't need 
explaining. Boys send their love any way 

they can. It gets misunderstood pretty 
quickly. I don't think you understand. I'm 
still waking up. Even now. Even here. 
I don't think you understand. Strange hungry 
eyes are looking back at us from out of 
the joyless darkness.Boys grin and bear it, 

but each one of us will bring his fists to 
the final protection. It's what we do.  
You may not understand. It's all for you. 
Everything is love for you. There's nothing 
else. I don't think you understand. We promised.
It will be over when we're asleep. dp .  

Bonus poems:

Human Heartbeat by Darryl Price

It's the same words just different people. 
I don't know or care how we got here. It
doesn't matter. I don't believe we are 
made out of nothingness and dust over 
the terrible karmic rainbow again 

and again and again. But the heartache's 
real enough. It's the same words here being 
realized. You respond because you hear 
them in your own head and recognize the 
voice as yours. Who cares if we've been sent here
before we are here now. It's the same words 
begging at the door, selling bent wounded 
flowers on the street.The same words dressed up 
to fit your guilt or compassion. It's the
same words describing the blue sky as it 

passes above your eyes. I do my best 
to own it but you always insist on 
looking for answers. It's the same words in 
the darkness as in the light. Suffering 
tends to put the blame somewhere else but we 

know it is us.The same words haunt us. They 
secretly follow us home from work. They 
tap on the window with a tree branch.They 
rain hard on the roof. But we learned a long 
time ago to use the human heartbeat 

to start a good conversation with the 
music-minded elementals.Folks,it's 
another myth gone haywire.But it's the 
very same words drinking themselves silly. 
It's the same words searching for some crumb of 

consolation I suppose.Words jingling 
brokenly in a paper bag. Words left 
by the side of the road. Words rotting in 
the indifferent winds. Being born one
more time for old time's sake. Words hoping. Some
dreaming. But you've heard it all before.Words
trying to get you to listen. Wanting 
you to touch them. Who knows what level of
tenderness will do the trick? It's the same
words rejected by you when you were them. dp    

Feeling by Darryl Price

You are the Earth's only hope
with your faith in love's friendship
with all beings everywhere.
You are the Earth's only hope

standing in the rain. You are
the Earth's only hope making
music on your computer. 
You are the Earth's only hope

via email. The rest of
us have already turned to
flowers. Our shine is ringing.
Soon the walls will clap no more.

You are the Earth's only hope
for removing the wires put
into our dreams. They can't stop
you from making so much noise
but they''ll try. You are the Earth's
only hope for remembering
that good feeling that comes
from being free. You are the

ones who love to dance. You are
the Earth's only hope to wake
again in the garden, to
leave our statue shells behind.

Come on. Open the gate You
are the keepers. Each one a
piece reflecting one together.
You are the skies on fire. dp

Doorway with Bicycle by Darryl Price

My writing career cannot be fixed. It's 
already taken all of my time to 
the whole terrible beauty of another 
dimension. Already lured me down 
strange paths in the forest that I felt sure 
I knew how to return safely from. I'm 
still trying to get home. My writing 
has derailed every relationship that 
might have been. I had to watch others get 
to that dream together without me. My 

writing career has walked away without 
me,  had other plans. I'm always surprised 
by those who overlap their creative 
sides and their love for friends so successfully. 
My friends were always us or it. That 
usually meant choosing a way to 
quietly present my love without it 
ever being truly acknowledged as 
having always chosen them. This leaves you 
with only one option, the broken heart. 

The poems don't care. They want to live. They 
only want to see above the weeds, and 
above the clouds, above the stars.There they 
explode,the ink runs into the gutters, 
dries. The heart remains broken.I think it 
might even be getting to me.But the 
poor choice is already a photograph.
A pooh bear with a broken arm. A box 
of old postcard souvenirs. My writing 
career is almost finished. I wanted
to get it right. I close my eyes. I close 
my eyes. The last parts I'll paint by faith in 
to something that's probably not there--the 
voice at last showing its teeth. Yeah I could 
really do with your smile about now. You 
might not think it's much fun, I'm here to say 
it's always been everything. I can't help 
that now or ever. My writing career 
became an animal of its own. You 
know what happens when the tiger gets so
hungry that he can't ever let it go.
This doorway is my portal into that 
summer of my bicycle and you.I've 
kept it all these years. But now my writing 
career can't use it any more. The sun
here is a pinched pink dot on the corner
of a colorless sky. I am still in
my flannel pajamas. My writing is
nothing if not persistent. My writing
career , which wasn't much, looks out and sighs. dp