Girl With a Typewriter Mouth

by Darryl Price

The Girl with a typewriter mouth
has a body like a single 
sheet of blank white paper. I was
obsessed with the Beatles, she tells

me. Well, there are worse things to be
obsessed with, I tell her. No, she
says, I mean REALLY obsessed. Oh,
is all I can think to reply 

to that with. I want to ask her
about her eating habits, but 
I refrain and keep it all on
my tongue. I imagine she could

chew through wood or clear a forest
of its unwanted mushrooms, but
these are not thoughts I'm happy with
being in my head. Her life gave

her this burden or this gift. It's 
not up to me to define its 
hidden meaning, but I bet you
anything there's a guy out there

who will be smitten to pieces
by her smile. I met a girl with 
a typewriter mouth today. She
gave me this poem. I'm giving

it to you. I guess that's how things 
work. I liked her. She was fun to 
talk to. With her typewriter mouth
she said, goodbye, thanks for the chat.

I watched her go. The back of her
head said nothing about the front
of her throat. Happy circumstance.
These words popped into my head space.

Bonus poems:

Fishing for Loaves by Darryl Price

This has been a rough and tough year for most 
citizens of the so called sane world.You 
know why and I don't have to say it. All 
this shit they're talking about every day, 

every night, over and over again. 
One after the other. All this shit they're 
still fighting over way down south. Meanwhile  
pressing your hand, your head, your engine, your 

secret button to someone, trying to 
make it mean something, when it already 
does or it already doesn't. All this 
truly awful sea stuff everywhere. Dead 

whales with plastic bags banging around like 
too much laundry in their stomachs. Sharks on 
the attack. Fish with too much mercury 
for any delicious kind of brawn. And 

Jellyfish are rising. The octopus 
acting dumb when we know it isn't. I'm 
tired, aren't you? I don't mind dancing if the 
song is you. I don't mind dancing if the 

song is you. I don't mind dancing if the 
song is you. I don't mind dancing if the 
song is you. Some things are worth repeating. 
It's either too late or never too late.

a forever ago

by Darryl Price

This is a late try. Is a dream. It's not 
yours I hope. But then why would you ever 
want to watch me fall apart? Every wild 
broken heart is a beautiful mess for 
someone else to witness and learn from. Here
in the center of mine it's another 
lonely walk through roses into another 
miserable rain. I guess I can see 
the faithful trees are still there. Good for them. 
They never give up wanting to be well. 
I guess everything's still out there except
for a me in the possible zone of 
maybe going home at last. That troubled 
train has long since fallen off its weary 
tracks into an explosion of strange weeds. 
I'm not going to pretend. I can't seem 

to dissolve at a decent alarming 
rate. Instead I fall into and climb out 
of the stacking cracks of these forgotten 
days for nothing and for no one. I have 
real love for some, but they don't need it. It's 
not a do, it's a done. These words should be
burned to the ground as soon as possible. 
Don't let your kids get hold of them. Tell them 
the ashes are a floating reminder 
of the kindness of mercy. They will do 
nothing to further your own beginnings. 

They are not asking you to want to turn 
around and look. To wave goodbye. Let them 
go where they will do no harm in their sad 
storytelling. That's my only wish. I 
just wasn't chosen to make much sense on 
this winding musical path with no sky
for future stars. The world gets in. Ransacks 
your cherished memories, gleeful as thieves. 
What are they looking for? You can't put the 
out of tune flesh back on a rusted old 
skeleton without making a puppet.   

Love Letter from the Last Elephant by Darryl Price


We hear all 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.

Nocturnal Hymn by Darryl Price

Buy bats
or if
you can't
buy moths