by Darryl Price
All you want is to sink
Into a mirror of lies. It's sick, man. You'd rather
Dig for treasure than make a beautiful thing happen, break
Your back, break your spirit over and over until there's
Nothing left to begin with again. All that gets you
Is a grinning skeleton for a friend, an unidentifiable worn
Stone singing like a ditch in the pouring rain at
The bottom of your favorite drinking glass. Any way you'll
Never return the favor. It's too late for all that
Pretty nonsense now. The best you can offer is a
Daily huff and puff on a broken trail. Could you
Still walk upright? I don't know. Not with that mirror
Smashed over your head like an oxen yoke. Shake off
The need for more strokes. You're getting old when you
Should be getting younger. The magic has been all pissed
Away like race horses on steroids. Like the cool old
Days of bookstores and basements, cigarettes and the 4am sun
Lifting its sleepy fingers off the dirty trash caught up
In the shaggy streets like dead birds. All we need
Is a bit of the Beatle luck. But that movie
Seems like another lie gone bad. We had it all,
Brother, but their imaginations were nastier than ours. They used
Those bombs on themselves in order to get to us.
How crazy is that shit? The only true country is
The country of love, but you'll never get there the
Same way twice. And nobody ever believes your passport photo.
And you can have all the secret handshakes in the
World and still get met with only mistrust. And you
Can declare yourself to be free, but the hands that
Surround you will eventually reach your throat. Remember oh please
That favorite tender line from Joni, didn't it feel good?
I'm Sure it did. I know it did for me.
And things went over the cliffs after that. Even now
I hear the sirens, I hear the trains and the
Gassed up cars, I hear the come-ons and the music
Cranked up beyond belief like Jack Daniels through a straw.
I don't want you to blow away. How much more
Plain can I make this? It's not all bad news
As long as we can feel each other there. I
Don't care if they think that is crap on a
Stick or not. They never cared for poetry any way.
Some of them made the choice to live among the
Boxed and buried blades of grass. That's okay with me.
This poem says we're still alive. It's no religion. Don't
Let this song go to waste. Stay with me. Here.
If I could I'd press my fingertips up against yours.
What else? Maybe softly, maybe not. Things always get back
Around to you somehow. That's my lot in life. Now
If you will forgive me I must be going to
Meet the one who will give me back my name.
The Radish of Radiance
Is not necessarily
Gluten free. In the wrong hands
It could cause a war. These are
The things you must know if you
Are going to attempt to
Eat one. I don't make these things
Up. The golden one will sit
atop your head and make rude
sounds, if you don't know how to
whistle it to sleep. Radish
for war, radish for peace, you
decide. I only wanted
to warn you that the taste is
somewhat tricky to behold--
on physical realms, so it's much
better to visit with a
flamethrower in your wallet.
All rights reserved.
Folded Up is the kind of poem I wish I could write all the time. It speaks plainly, but plainly goes off in its own surprising direction. I like the sentence structure, it's purity. This is the kind of poem I dream about writing when I'm in a dream. Hopefully it's original enough to stand the test of time without me getting in the way.