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Cartoon Campfire


by Darryl Price



 

This is the parallel room I keep my heart in. Got a solo fireplace. I don't want to invite anyone else. It doesn't matter if no one knocks on the door again. I'm too shy to hope for much more than a couple of

Interesting shadows between the teardrops. I don't mind. It's not too bad. I did the best I could to make a work of art out of the birds in my window for you. I must admit when you tore down the curtains and

Wrapped them around yourself I thought you were making a fashion statement not a diversion. I didn't get the allusion for the longest time. Now I feel like something straightened has happened in here, but it

Could be just a crack in the light set in. It could be the crack is in my head. I HEAR BAGPIPES. They're not a joyful sound to me, but a lament and a plea for some return to sanity and sea. The ocean has a mighty

Pull even this far from heaven. Oh I'm pretty sure they don't want the likes of me, I've got too many questions. I'd be the first one to ask why all the sorrow, when such a little bit goes a long way? I'd be

Thrown out with all of my poems fluttering behind me like artificial tears, artificial petals, artificial butterfly wings. Yes, it's going to be a long fall back down to the ruined ground. Like heavy blankets

Crumpled in the corner, no one is going to want to have to sift them up by themselves. I can't blame them. I made my escape. I won't give up. I could always feel it in my throat you know, the path was on

A forever trajectory and I was stapled to it by a million stars. I'd like to share a cigarette with a comedian. I can't give it up. That's all I know for sure. The rest is like pulling yourself through a small

Cluster of bushes, you don't have a choice if you want to sing an authentic existence. Don't worry, I see the irony there. You're damned if you do and lonely if you don't. The skeletons dance regardless of the

Faces you make to clear yourself. But what they say on eye television is not what we say. You mustn't be quiet. Whatever it is it doesn't matter, but to me, for me, I've always treasured what no one else could

Hear. And inside that wonderful landscape of impertinent noises I found you dancing like a mythical faun around a splashing fountain of youth. I could no more give up that dream than give up breathing for a

Living. So here you go, more poems than you'll ever know what to do with. And one last thing: I've never felt so glad in my entire life to let go of my words and believe they'll make their own way home. A Goodnight.




Paris Is Alive 

Vive la musique, vive la liberté, vive la France!

 

We are all living cities of light, only some of us are turned off. When

We get there, we get there. We find we fit in the shape we were

All along. They can blacken the skies with their poisoned cups of spilled over anger.

They can disrupt the freedom of music of the spheres with their own rain of

 

Out of tune hate filled bullets. But they can't see in the mirror that is

Each and every face. They can't hear the human pain more unbearable than their own

Perceived punishment for living. The master they serve is eating them alive. The master they

Store in a scowl is rewriting the pages backwards in the hopes of reaching total

 

Annihilation, not Paradise, but hell. And still ordinary laughter will crack the spackle of doom.

It starts anywhere with a smile. It travels with a kiss, a hand holding a

Hand. This is what the people know. It's not a religion. It's not a military

Quest for power. It's a poem, a song, a feeling.  And it has no boundaries.

 

When we get there, we light up. We are all amazing cities of light. It's

Dancing. It's laughing and crying. It's dreaming. It's being together inside our hearts. They can

Chop off as many flowers as there are blades of grass. It only takes one,

Even one of their own, to start a garden. Just ask the moon and stars.

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