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First Things Go First And End Up Being Last Things(a Big Enough Picture)


by Darryl Price


 

I don't have to show you how to fly. I don't even

know who you are still possibly trying to be in this crazy world. But the words make us family. I can't

help that or what you might do with that public tweet tweet tweet of a shadowy knowledge to come. There are

many obvious betrayals available to the common man. All I can tell you

is I've seen polar bears looking like they know something has changed 

forever. They see themselves growling larger than the milky skies and chasing 

the weirdly quick as a fat salmon walrus into its deep blue

depths in a crazy dance of mad hunger and wildest purest primal enjoyment. But that simply 

doesn't last anymore. Some part of them knows what's coming. Everything's coming. It

soon will be here. The ocean could easily be walked upon once. Now

it is surely dissolving and doesn't want to play or look you

in the face with its simple magnetic desires anymore. But sadly enough now that's not the main point

of all this swimming swath of primary letters floating in a crazy crowded basin before us. You know better than

that. If anything it's only me cringing back against the blackening walls, hoping for 

an echo and fearing the answering throat's deepening echoing challenge ahead. What's changed? The killer

wears better suits than us. They've changed furs. We must change, too.

   

When I was out walking the dog a short while ago it

suddenly started to snow very quickly all around us. The flakes like

fully realized yet fragile box-kites made of minute bleached bones were about

the size of thumb flipping quarters. At first I thought how beautiful that

I am now inside my own version of a snow globe, living larger in time 

as any snowman should, but then it started to freeze my skin like being caught by

a sharp pair of tweezers and I was not able to pry open

my eyes all the way without being stabbed by snowflake wielding winds

bent on my lost and silent, blinding destruction. The perfect crime I

thought, except someone's bound to blame the poor defenseless dog after all  the

final facts come washing in. That's just how people are. But I saw the poetry in it, 

like the sunlight on the grass of memory in my frozen stiff to the touch 

body, found at last covered like an old tree stump looking like

a lone, sprinkled and crumpled pirate boot without a match anywhere in sight.

You'll only need to look once to get that soft picture tattooed on the inside of your brain wall. I had

to take off my gloves and stuff them back into my coat pockets 

in order to get to the keys and numbly clutch and turn the doorknob with any kind of real force of entry.

 

And now my still reading friends safely

back inside my own bought and paid for igloo of wood and pretend 

glue I write some part of you this cryptic take home message to bring  

to the other listening parts of you from the other side of wherever you think you 

are sitting right now besides here with me. You don't understand what it was like, to know that say

a Keith Moon or a John Lennon was also taking the same

tiresome journey through the threatening mazes at the same time as you, spinning

around inside the awesome gravity bowl with the rest,rolling over,splattering

their new found passions like bright wet and colorful paint against the blank days and the awful smoke filled nights,

leaving the impression of a life lived on wildest purpose and with fearless 

experimentation and immediate discovery on every other heart shaped one of us. It

mattered that there was a point at which all activities, a million, 

collided into one. This was our secret path with one another. It

still is if you believe in something more than molecules and electrical

firings in the brain. We held hands across and over the water, Mr. Soul.




Bonus poem:



Lunch

I've noticed a lot 

of sparrows eat french

fries. I like french fries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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