"Even in the Same Room" by Darryl Price

Even in the Same Room

as you are, there's a big floating arm that separates both of us

from each other. Widening, like a river, it touches us together often,

but still keeps us drifting apart. The banks of your new life have different weeds

and flowers growing on them than mine. But we share all those same stars washing high above us like falling oxygen masks.

This has always been a kind of strange comfort to me. Sometimes that

kind of concrete circumstance is all we have to send

a sweet dream upon its way in this sleepy old world, of slippery rocks and blocking branches, to a

strangely beautiful somewhere else. Even in the middle of a

rainstorm of epic proportions we might find another road that

leads to a clear cut picture of at least a

familiar-looking face with an obvious enough heart, one that believes in going directly into the deepest, living

lights clanging together. I don't want to have to explain

this phenomenon for anyone else, because you are the only

one it is ever meant to reach. This poem is an incredible

kite, a whistle, a heron on a mission, a canoe with a secret note painted on

its one side, a popping radiating lily sprung open out of nowhere with its own

gust of sun shining in the middle, a birdsong made only once in

a lifetime from one branch in one deeply probing dream of a lost forever forest. Even on

this long and lonely hill I can still celebrate your shadow sinking softly upon mine as I walk away from every

home. There'll never be another time to tell you. Goodbye, my friend.

Bonus poems:

Walking the Walk and Talking

by Darryl Price

I like being with you. Any room will do. A

safe and lovely view we make into the two of

us. We don't have to hold too tightly because

we don't need to try in order to make the

love light appear. I like being with you. Any poem

will do. A sky that appears perfect with you under

its dancing branches. Let it rain. I don't care if

I get wet. It doesn't matter. I don't care if

I get drenched. You soak me. I like being with

you. Any weather is exciting with you. And of course

we don't have to sell it to anyone in order to fall

into its unique depths. It says its name to anyone who

will listen, as surely as stars will on a clear

midnight. I like being with you. Any words will do.

But this missing you forever part in the daily picture

is the hardest to take for me. The blue shirt

you wore, the faded color of it, haunts my next

breath like a giddy little ghost. I cannot speak without

thinking of you, sweetly animating its armpits and soft shoulders,

in front of me, like some kind of a human

waterfall, made of flowers and vines. I am completely converted

to your happiness from here on out. I like listening

with you. But there is just no way to exchange

gifts to each other on this world without causing an

explosion of major harm. I like being with you. So

put your pastry down and rest. It won't wash away

this pain. You smile me, and I smile you. I'd

prefer long kisses. I'm not trying to hide anything, but

you're never on your own if there's any truth inside

my heart. I signal your absence, like the air.

Bonus poems:

(In Which) I Question Why

by Darryl Price

How long have the stars in cages

been crying? How long is long enough?

I've been here before. There's nothing

clever left to say. I'm sick of

it for them. I'm sick of it for

(all of) us. I'm sick of it for

the awful gasping for air of

the oceans. I'm sick of it for

the being sucked into holes of

the crumbling mountains. I'm sick of

it for the soft dimming of the

children of ancient holy trees.

I'm sick of it for the bullied,

butchered children of animals.

Sick of it for the gentle way

of the warrior butterflies,

the blaming and shaming of the

poor bat, sudden disappearances

of the lightning bug, the stoning

of the owl's namesake. I've been here

before. I don't know about you,

but I suspect we're all the same

on some vibrational level

of atomic consciousness. How

long? There is nothing left to say

about the bomb. It kills. It's meant

to kill. It does a very fine

job of killing. We invented

it and now it's inventing us.

There's nothing left to say about

how much your love matters. I've been

here before. The stars have all been

crying. There's nothing left to say.

I'm sick of it for the people

left in heartache and pain. They know

who they are. Your heart tribe is your

heart tribe before you even meet

one of them, and you have met them

forever. I'm sick of it for

the hungry, scared mice on the wet

battlefields. For flowers in spite

of it all blooming in the stink

of the battlefield. The looted

suitcases scattered on the sad

battlefield. There's nothing left to

say. The stars in cages have been

crying for centuries. They are

numb, lost and lonely, whether you

choose to believe in it or not.

They are not dead, they are just not

being allowed to shine. I've been

here before. I've got nothing to

say. I'm tired of it. I'm sick of

them kicking at saintly dreamers,

calling them fools and worse. I've been

here before. Nothing left to say.

Waiting, Waiting

by Darryl Price

The fear you represent is a real drag. That's all there is to say. But like every other house on the block I have spiders in the basement who are waiting to be brought up into the golden light. These creatures only want to be good at being alive. Instead

they are given a dangerous reputation to contend with. It's much easier to squash what you can never be. Some will mistake your neck for moonlight and settle into a feel good dreamscape of their own, others will rear up on their hind legs and dare you to play god.

That's a sorry wish too easily granted. Now apply that to the world around you. Things are more like paper than like stone. Every time you choose the easy route you have made the whole world one step closer to blinking out, even if you didn't mean to

(be so unforgiving in the first place). You are not king. There is no king, or there are only kings. Even a real king is not the end of all that is now because we are living in a spiral city, full of holes, that can collapse upon itself at any given moment, lost in time like sand.

Learn to navigate. You're allowed to know things. It's not too late to take back your misfortune in the garden, so we might as well get on with the quest at hand. The idea wasn't to get back, it was to get out, because free is free. Somewhere along

the line this was felt to be pretty well worth it--whatever the dangers ahead. So when you make your album don't forget to be involved in every last detail of it--don't leave it up to someone else to make the small arrangements for you. You've earned the right to

scream or cry or laugh as loud as anybody. And if they sit back and hate you with their stares they are the ones who are swimming in molasses. They are the souls blackening against the sputtering rocks. You are rising, rising, and finding it to be one beautiful ride through all those glorious clouds.