by Darryl Price
The Kitty Cat Made the Stiff Little Nose in the Air Bushes Wiggle
like that groan inducing old rubber pencil
trick in the wide-eyed wrinkled hands
of another fake magician or parent. Or is it
the purest of silliest delights, a
fully realized grand tour of pretense with
me as your guide or the gathered mossy expertise
that turns the obvious one-man joke into
something more incredulous once again? Presto! I've still
got your nose. See? Nothing works. Everything
is a lie. Or it all
simply becomes killingly boring, what you're willing to
invest in through your given over eyes
to its cartoon character for the sake
of one tiny moment's humane hesitation
before the inevitable storm and fall of
what's real and actually hurts. That's where
we'll meet I'm so sure of it now.
And where does this nuclear incident
of laughter fit into the quick palm
of timeless Beauty on her natural
order of all things dull and dusty ?
(Everything else acted Perfectly Normal. Let's
get that straight right now,mister.) That's the
sticky thing about accepting this job.
You don't necessarily get to choose what
form and shape of the next
messenger. And that's just the very first
part of the all consuming process
as you suck through the door. After
that you're left with your hands on
your knees, of course. Now what to
do with all that left over
painted landscape paper? Hey it's your play Shakespeare
after all. So where do you keep
the poor sewn onto strings puppets after
they do your evil bidding anyway?
Can you blame us for wanting to break open that chest and
steal them away? Please. I've got a straight pin. Allow me. I'll be your thief tonight.
Love Letter from the Last Elephant(an early draft version)
We all hear the stories
coming right up out of
the dust. We see the same
sky, the same stars. We've met
our own deaths forever.
We know what's happening.
Because of this some of
us will come willingly
to have chains put around
our feet. Some others must
never be anything
but free. This way they can
still lead with their hearts.We
cannot save us. You could
not save yours either as
he was bleached and became
a ghost. There is little
time for this conversation
before the planet
can no longer pronounce
our names correctly. Then
there will be no one to
call us home again by
trumpet or full foot stomp.
It may sound funny to
you but we have tasted
the rain, flowers, grass;
it tastes right, we believe.
All rights reserved.
The first bonus poem here is slated to be published at Kaffe in Katmandu on October 6, 10 am CET.
This is tenderness outlined in a confusion of way too solid words. It's almost impossible to say how much the human touch means to human beings. When you receive a genuine one it rocks you to the core as if you've been privately allowed to view a small miracle within. I know that doesn't make much sense now--that's why I wrote this poem, to try to make some sort of sense of it.