Even in the Same Room

by Darryl Price



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.