Big Hotel Inside Your Jungle Brain

by Darryl Price



He's not something you'll want, waiting for you inside your living room's ear.

Go and see your family. Breathe the broad daylight whenever

you can. I got lost in some free form

dog caves. That's all. That's no path to aspire to


in following me taking on a few steps toward freedom. Yeah, I've seen some strange things that made me

sing and others that made me dance, but the price was so long to pay off

and more than heavy to pull on. I'm just a little tug of a boat. You on the other hand

can go anywhere. That's the flurry of so much freedom jumping in your pretty little finger,


but you've always got the moon. It's not

some mystery in a little white pill box. It's

a funny coin, fingered by the eyes of

every living thing more than once. It's an old


skeleton key that only works if the night

lock is presently fading into view. Otherwise it's

just a used oyster shell. But you were made

for another daylight altogether. Aren't you the lucky one? 


Power right now is a simple yellow flame for you that

hangs onto your head and shoulders like a funny tickling

scarf, but soon it will be large enough

to stand beside you, and wave like a real red


flag meaning business. What will you do with so much resting on

your sleepy reply? It's going to make you a whole lot to take

for awhile I guess. After that it's going to consume

the world around you unless you find the right amount


of candy to bribe its tantrum with. That's your choice

and my simple labor. Mine was always tied to things like wild

fishes. I'd invite you there, but your hand now

needs so much more than mine to guide its true miracle all the way home to the new of love love love.  







Bonus poem:


The Long Drive


The day has finally begun to grow up. We begin once more to

say yes to ourselves through the electric guitar sound of

breathing in with as much purchase as possible. I'll go the extra mile for you. I've

been into the music for as long as I

can remember. I hear it everywhere. We'll be glad

to share the friendly objectified noise as one with your heart alone if it makes you happy. It's our little

campfire, isn't it? The whole thing is to give

off a little light of our own and enjoy


running through the sparks together. I mean the noise

is one thing we love to consume, but really the whole

thing only comes alive in the people you meet.

Why does it have to be so mysterious as to only

be believed by sad passengers on a bus? I only wanted to say I still

believe in love, too. That the world of mankind's

on-going , apologetic pain isn't all that bad when I'm being held prisoner

in the same room as you. It's a pretty simple sort of human


formula. The art room itself gets constructed by our freshly applied

lives and it deconstructs just as quickly. That's sad

if you want to let it be, but don't you let it be, or it will

destroy us way past the time for our need to manifest. We've still

got plenty of new train whistles in our Dumbo ears

coming right at us from out of the new

day, firing like a string of very active volcanoes at the singular moon. Let it be a

new direction, if you like, just don't let the


waves carry you so far away from this very shore we're on. There

are those who only want to take up the

old tracks and go home to someplace less lonely, completely erased

by time and circumstance. This is always wrong. We

are here, we are not there. If we have

another discontented, brave chance, let's take it up and go

for full character content all the way. As we should

and have done all along, each and every  time, well, so far, and so good.