PDF

Falling Rocks in Equal Doses


by Darryl Price


Not sure I remember what's important, but I remember you. 
That's the whole problem I think. You're a drain where 
all my words end up ending up. All of them 
get lost inside you. Eventually. And I'm left with nothing 
to say. Because all my words are gone like toothpaste. 
The few I've got left only seem to repeat themselves 
in pathetic smears. But they'll have to do. Not sure
I can remember anything important, but I say your name
in my sleep. It's all become a boring animal ritual. 
I can admit to that. I remember you used to

wear this yellow teeshirt all the time like it defined
something impossible about you and your motion inside dark jeans.
It drove me mad with desire. And that made you 
laugh. Which drove me over a cliff, into an ocean, 
and left me clinging to slippery rocks for dear life.
So not sure I remember one important thing about anything
if you want to know the truth. But I know 
the song that made you sit still and look at
things like they were puzzles you were putting together in
your head as a little seductive dance. How else am 

I going to describe the sadness back to you now? 
When you're not even listening. And my readers are expecting 
me to swing this crazy thing around and show them 
the secret room inside of themselves. But a broken heart 
can only make cubist desk paintings out of its overly 
hoarded toy stuffs and hope for the best. I can't 
remember what's important to me any more. It was so 
clear to me just yesterday. Oh. Open my eyes. Let 
me see a way. Let me swim before I drown. 
Let me swim before I wash away. I remember you 

as important but I can't seem to remember why. The 
words won't tell me. I'm not sure they think we 
deserve to know the reason. Or they just might be 
trying to protect us from the tilting sun. Oh. It's 
too late for that. Oh, open my head. Let me 
see before I go completely blind from all the salt in my  
own eyes. Running down my face. For all of us 
who are left have my words fight for air. For 
all of us here let my words continue to look 
for fair meaning. And kiss you goodbye. For all the 

lonely floating pieces let my wrecked words shine through the 
slumber of time and ruin. Night and day. Open the 
curtains. I remember you. You were the question I guess
I needed to hear from this life. Thank you for 
asking me. It was a beautiful way to say hello 
and a hard way to say goodbye as the next 
question on the horizon became more solitary in its insistence
on authenticity. Maybe what was so important doesn't matter. But
it remains with me. And I wouldn't want you to 
think of it in any other way than real love. 



Bonus poems:


Invisible Sky

by Darryl Price


This is the nothing you called for. I don't know why you should want it 
delivered from me. My light went out. You might as well go on and receive 
it from any passing car. Once at least it would have seemed a small breeze 
and a faint perfume and a quiet shaking of some early summerlike leaves. Now you 
can call it a drowning ocean or an invisible sky if you want to but 

it doesn't hold up anything recognizable. My open hands are empty. All around my world
the loveliness is sunk from my voice. My light is smashed and in pieces. The waiting is all over now. You should really walk away into some nearest bright tavern 
and celebrate. Here. Have one on me. My light was mortally hurt from the beginning. 
If you've found salvation on your path you are blessed among so few fish out 

of water survivors. I'm bound for the elephant graveyards myself. I've heard they accept poets 
there without question. My light was strange. You said so yourself somewhere in the dark. 
This is the nothing. I am the unremembered sky you once danced beneath. This is the nothing you called for. My heart broke around you, that's all. A fool for 
love is always a lost soul. Everyone knows that. I learned it the hard way.    





My Tiger by Darryl Price

Try to understand. There were dragons. Some were friendly, but
they were real dragons. You didn't want to end up 
standing on the wrong side of a belch. Try to.
 
The young barefoot woman standing in the grass just outside
her garden gate was perfect for the sun, perfect for 
any wind. Her hair was like a flag calling you 

to enlist your heart into something more noble. Like a
grand slam to the side of the head. Bees barely 
noticed. Birds typed the words you felt, above her head,

high in the clouds, with their sing-song beaks on full 
tattletale throttle. Try to understand. We were boys. We had
never thought more deeply about what we were doing than 

the invitation. Only the adventure itself ever took us farther 
away. Down the stairs. Down the road. Suddenly we were 
holding on for dear life. Trying to understand frustration. This
 
was something new. And hurt in ways no gun could 
ever hope to protect us from. Bees elbowed their way 
past our frozen stampede like we were made of daisy 

chains.Try to understand. We were watching paintings come to 
life.Try. We were lovers. Our hands and faces were 
for us, only for each to see. Bees buzzed around 

everyone's heads. The barefoot woman moved into a beautiful house 
and stayed behind its white picket windows forever. We were 
new dreamers breathing together.You blew my mind. Is this 

the place we made a secret plan to always appreciate 
the bees? The heart breaks. It's a crime. No one 
claims to have seen anything. The heart breaks. No one 

understands. No one comes. Our hands. Our faces. Our bees.
I got on my tiger. What else was I going 
to do? Now he is my only friend. Good company.



Talking to a Locked Gate by Darryl Price

"Fun is the one thing that money can't buy."--The Beatles

Poetry is an act
of love. Who do you think
you are? I'm not on your
wave, you riders of young
dreaming lovers, their hands
tied together in brave
hope for the future. An
act of love. Who are you?

I am not on your side,
you armies of trial and
terror, you proud puppets,
stompers of desire and
exploration, mistakes
and spontaneity.
Poetry is my love
for you. I am not on

your path, you critics of
the imperfect fumble,
artists trying to score
lightning into magic.
I resist. You gender
deniers of the great
mysterious spirit
in nature. Poetry

is an act of my love.
I return your beauty,
manipulators of
precise political
correctness, the strict lanes
of bricked-up feeling, spit
while proclaiming freedom
for only your own pain.

Poetry is at the
heart of all life, a wild
sensuality I
celebrate like a priest,
diverse and giving. Who
do you think you are? I'm
on the side of dancers,
starry-eyed rain makers.

Poetry is an act
of fun. Silly has no 
religion. It has no
government. It is not
precious. It is our friend.
Do you think you are sane?
I'm on the side of shells
of the beach, light that shines. 
 
 
 

   
Endcap