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Fibers(next:our world without ice caps/yipes!)


by Darryl Price


 
The light they love to hate so much
is always pulsating within each life; the unbelievable color sword of what happens next
when any two people find each other
in their hearts and all pretense is
somehow gone, for at least that one particular moment in time. The dove
 
some loathe to acknowledge so clearly is
the mystery that begins at the very
edge of another year's flower petals and
continues all the way through to the insides
of root pale, until you find yourself
 
(poof!)standing outside the pungent gates of Garden Earth once more.
How does this thing
happen to us so continuously? Let me tell you something. Look. See. They will mash them to bits
with their meaty fingers pressed into boulders
of fury, and still it will not
yield up one honey drop of its secret taste to them. There is no
 
good, they will scream at you. Life is only a
lie, they will cry. Die, die, die, they'll demand,
they will strangle it out of you then, all 
out of this insect world, but nothing will
end the endless stream of pleasure that newly 
 
derives from absolutely nothing, of no hope, 
nothing to be gained from it, again and again. They
will plant fields of sorrow and harvest
the bitter grains and send them speeding on top of each other all
over the world. There are still those greedy
 
enough to buy in if the price
is cheap enough. They will also sow it like rainstorms
into your thirsty dreams, weave it into your very 
clothing's fabric, lace your coffee and donuts with it,
enough fear to bring down an elephant to
 
its baggy sagging knees. And still there will be a genuine
laughter. And still there will be small bewildering
acts of total benevolence. And still there will
be poets singing about stars and the
moon with its rivers of cloud upon cloud, and soft healing hands there just for the simple act of asking.
 
 050510


Blast from the past:

A Ticking Situation

revised scrambled egg version

Beauty belongs in its own
garden. How close
the villains are!
Not all are brothers.

Beauty doesn't need to show
you her proof. How harsh these
raindrops howl! We
are not all water.

Beauty remembers nothing
for long. There is no
you and me. There's
you. There's only me.

Beauty will remain under
a blue sky. Bugs climb
into one hand
and out the other.

Darryl Price  041495--050610


 

There's Not One Single Word

for you that I'd be happy 
without knowing. What you see before 
you is the squashed ball 
of my sad attempt to 
hold you to that moment-- 
but each pictured mug begs for 
another; each air-conditioned

sheet orders one more round of clouds, 
please, birds striking the seams of landscapes lending 
more line to a frenzied 
concerto already in progress, more wild wind 
upon more fresh leaf, with 
squawking children playing 
just below the hill and 
the sea itself crouching

down to the horizon-- 
no matter the length left 
to knot. It flows on at 
every turn of the head 
like a whistle on fire-- 
becoming the season 
before and after itself, 
so that one's always

facing the flame from any sort of a blind 
direction. Like a sower then 
I cast my blank letters  
like gravel upon a 
slant tin roof finding joy 
in the sounds of failure 
to musically allude 
to even your name's start my love.

Pieces of heart may provide 
a few crumbs for birds 
moments away from their 
own unfortunate panes, 
thick trucks grumble deep into 
love fields and nothing 
is given a second 
chance to grow to seed, whereas you and I,we

were once a dream that brought pure 
laughter out of thin air 
and pushed hands into each other's
grateful places. 
We swept the world then all 
together and it was somehow 
safer; only the two of 
us the most likely to be in danger.

D.P. 10/12/09

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