Apples and Oranges and Apples

by Darryl Price

No one is going to find us. And even if they 
did it's just a play someone wrote with you in mind 
as the lead. No one is going to find us. I 
could have told you this but I didn't want to spoil 
your newfound fun. No one is going to find us. 
The funny part is, I found you, but you didn't 

find me. You saw me, you just didn't see me. No 
one is going to find us. I know there are much 
prettier lies out there than the ones we are now 
lifting. No one is going to find us. They aren't 
going to save us. We are going in the cold 
water, one way or another. Look. No one is 

going to find us. You made that perfectly clear. 
No one is going to find us. Because there is 
no escape. No one is going to find us. But 
I still meant every single word. It doesn't make 
it any less true. No one is going to find 
us. Okay, you've made your point. You can simply put 

together another whole life out of the torn 
pieces of this one anytime you want just by 
looking in another direction, following 
a hunch. Or by letting someone quietly speak 
to you over your lunchtime book. But it's no joke. 
No one is going to find us. I know that now. 

No one is going to find us. And the pages  
of joy and sorrow will continue to turn in
on themselves, until we blow away. No one is 
coming. No one is going to find us. But I 
can't help myself. I still want to know the fire will 
burn me. It's not enough for me to be told. No

one is going to find us. And it comes as no 
surprise. But mountains and seashells still make me smile.
No one is going to find us. But kites and big 
bright fireworks still make me breathe
deeply on purpose. Trees make
me feel at home wherever I am (being) myself.

Bonus poems, for those who asked:

A Bunch of Flowers

by Darryl Price

What did we do that you have silenced your love? 
Isn't that the opposite? What did we do that you 
have walked so far away now that even if you 
wanted to turn around it would take months and years 
to even begin to pick up the trail again? What
did we do that you have erased the pronouncement of 
our names from your lonely thoughts? Is that fair? How 
will the light get in? What did we do that 
makes us, alone in the universe, unworthy of your own 
share of angel's mercy? Are you a good witch or
a bad witch? What did we do that gave you 
the right to dismiss us from your heart's favors? Are 
we not ordinary? What did we do that the only 
thing you have for us this night is night's shadowy 
cape thrown over our wide open tears? What have you 

done to your head? Life's too cruel for such lies. 
What did we do that you'd rather grow older than 
younger with us as your mates? What did we do 
that demanded a pirate's flag be flown over the hour 
every time we meet? What did we do that spilled 

the last bottle of help down the drain? You're not 
the only one. What did we do that let the 
fake ashes bloat that silence into childish  fury? You'll be 
next. Isn't that the way it always works? When did 
you get to play so dirty? What did we do 

that turned your inner gardens into a sad gangster cemetery? 
Come on. Come on. Come back. We need you. I 
need you. We want you. What did we do that 
you can never allow yourself to understand? What did we 
do that turned your smile into chaos and confusion? What 

did we do that your hollowness can never be filled
again with love? You're not out of love. And neither 
are we. We welcome broken you into our arms. As
you push and shove, we welcome broken you home again.  
I thought you knew. You are not lost. We're here.  

The Sound

by Darryl Price

of crying. The sound of a ghost 
wishing. Of haunted dreaming. The 
sound of the plane of laughing. All 
I know is I'm sitting here now. 
alone at the kitchen table. 
Not hungry, but appetite. The 
glass of water in the Mason 
jar is already two thirds gone. 

The shedding trees outside are cold, 
shivering in the cool winds. These 
are just street things. They probably 
don't have anything in common. 
But my day. The lazy sound of 
so much wasted rain. The sound of 
a dirty motor starting. The 
pretending rain and the glass of 

water might have something else in 
common. I'm not doing my best. 
Are the poor trees in a glass cage 
or is it me? I don't know why 
you should care. Did you know Flipper 
the sweet star dolphin committed 
suicide by holding her breath 
until it was all over? Love 

wasn't enough when we were young. 
It never is when you are that 
lonely for wild company. The 
sound of one leaf hitting the ground 
or just the world in general. 
The sound of the thick wet grasses, 
wondering where the sun went. Will 
he ever come back? We can't live 

like this. The sound of a train. 
It's only passing through us. The
sound of the story telling us
itself. The sound of long ago
feet. The sound of the chair as I
adjust my skeleton. Someone 
whistling, a sad melody
underneath. The onset of Fall.

You and I back where we started.
The poem isn't over. It's 
sleeping. Waiting to awaken.
The sound of the heart's wheel turning
out another night's journey. The
sound of stars. The sound of weeping.
But the sound of discovery.
The sound of everything at once.

Oh, For Fuck's Sake

by Darryl Price

Has the thrill of being human 
worn off yet? I hope not. I'd like 
to fly, but where would I go? Could 
I spot your house from the clouds? Through 
the rain? I don't know. Dave Chappelle 
makes me laugh in a good way. I 
mean it's a really good feeling. 
That's something, isn't it? Why must 

we always concentrate on pain 
as the end of all happiness? 
The pain we all feel. Even when 
we are feeling everything is 
pretty wonderful. I think it 
was the Smiths who put it this way: 
there is a light that never goes 
out. Never. I believe that and
I'm not sure I know what it means, 
other than asking you to leave 
a light on. These are just words, but 
look at how deep they can go in all 
directions. Like rays. Like ripples. 
Being human. That's about all 
that we've got left to believe in. 
Life is a dance floor. I had a 

strange dream once where I was flying 
upright like a vacuum cleaner. 
I thought it was funny. I was 
terrified, didn't see the top 
of your sweet head anywhere that 
I can remember. I have a 
foolish heart. That is very well 
known. Am I just a sad mirror? 

Sometimes all I can do is speak 
in a low growl or groan, spitting 
out a string of unrelated 
sentences to the couch cushions. 
Maybe that's my poem's process. 
Who knows? But we're not done here yet. 
Vanity. A few seconds. Leaves 
appear. Leaves disappear. Appear. 

Disappointment comes. And goes. Has 
the regret of being human 
worn off ? I'd like to remember 
you, but how could I not? I was 
a fool for your love. I built a 
boat. It's still there. Waiting. If you 
don't care, I can't change that into
a longer poem. I should go.