PDF

God's Personal Microphones


by Darryl Price



 

This is my melody. I will not shut it down for you, it will do that all on its own. Everyone knows this. I don't need to go on holiday. You can't really get away from yourself. This is my color. It goes with the

everything I am. I'm not sorry I grew past you standing there waiting for a repeat of the miracle you were born with. We all must take our own actions from now on and see them. It gets to that point. The

biggest offenders were probably just bumbling idiots. This is my song. You can play it if it makes you feel alive, otherwise I'd skip it, honestly. I'm not waiting. A strong current is sweeping me downstream. This

is my ripple. My expanding ring. If it touches your naked skin it's not meant to do more than reach you and give itself wholly to that meeting of moments. We're all gone in an instant. This is my melody. I

made it up myself, but it was colored by all of you. I get up in the morning and it starts all over again. We've got the one lucky chance to go forward or go stand in a corner. I choose to move in a direction

that smells of the freshness of stars. I've always enjoyed the unexpected feelings of having been here before. This is my melody. It doesn't have to be approved by you. I didn't approve yours. That's the story

of the old clothes stuffed into museums. When you think about it, it's a kind of perpetual laundry mat. We get there sooner or later with our bundle of sorrows, hoping to rinse them to at least a semblance of

the clean getaway. Bunch of robbers, bunch of kids, with their orchards full of ripening clocks. While the rest of us try to hide the few creative ideas we've got left in the cellars of our mistrust like jars full of

screws and bolts. You never know when you're going to need them to build a robot out of your remaining parts. This is my melody and it has nothing to do with the way you talk or walk away or smile

out of the corner of your mouth like a demented magical cat. I get why so many of us just want to sleep. Look at this crazy landscape full of missing boots sprouting out of the ground like God's personal

microphones. Bushes are a thing of the past. It's all bullet holes and concrete meadows now. Something tastes of betrayal. And it isn't to be found on your TVs, but it's certainly reflected there. Are you

hypnotized enough yet? You think you want to stop smoking, but, really, you're the thing on fire that's belching its stench into the atmosphere. Why should I be your excuse? I'm the Pied Piper. I'm the song

coming out of a window in the clouds. But I'll shut up eventually and sail behind my door. This is my melody. It's not a lie. I said it's not a lie. This is my melody. It's a human wail. It's not some fattened plea to

a bunch of living lights for a spectral visit to reassure my mind that it's not just a saddlebag carrying leaking crazy notions over a cliff. I don't care if that's hip or not. I don't care if you'll buy it or not. It's not

for sale, it's just an echo.  It's just a child crying where you left him. But that's the ghost in me.  The me that writes these things has no tears left. I see the bird shit falling on the cliffs as the real reason for

goodbyes. I'm no black angel. But you are the one with bandages over your eyes. No one can unwrap them but you. No one can see without seeing but you. No one can save you. So, come again, listen, eh?     



   

Bonus poems:





Here at the End of the World by Darryl Price

 

I never liked your world. I never liked your grime. I never liked

Your chords. I like it real. I never trusted your secrets. I mean

A little bit of war playing is okay before dinner, but you (jerks)

 

Take all the fun out of having the energy to explode. I never

Liked your choice of pizza, it's not about pizza. Get a clue. Never

Liked your love affair with money. But I like money. I never liked

 

Your doomsday drugs. But I don't want to die. No one gets to

Own all the words. Use them any way you see fit. I'm tired

Of the guns. I just really don't like your window, with its children

 

Stuck in amber chunks of collectable frames. Set them free.  Makes me sad.

You shouldn't have to pay for the shotgun of your own soul. Don't

Screw the moon over with your shit. I never liked your cars. Give

 

Me the stars. I never liked your world. I tried to leave as

Soon as I woke up. I never believed your insanity plea. No wonder

We're forbidden on the other dimensions. We'd only bring corruption, disruption and oil.

 

It's nothing new, but we're alive, we might as well try to figure

Something better out. That's why we wish you were stopped from turning everything

Colder. I never liked your handshake. Here at the end of the world

 

I want to say I never liked your wine. Or, your paradise. Don't

Need your bestsellers. Only need my love. My mind is mine. I never

Want to dishonor any earths. I look forward to the birthdays of truth.    

 

I never liked your tyranny. I might still have something to give. Guess

We'll discover that together. I never liked your excuses. Your explanations. Your lies.

Your heartbreaks. Your swimming pools. Your confetti. Your cupcake parlors. Your enormous debts.

 

Your camera jets. Your niceties. Your world of misunderstood doorways. So, it goes.

I'm not after you, I'm judging myself, trying to find the outline. Don't

Like your rules for drinking water. For walking in the sun. For dancing

 

Within the rain. Pretty sure. I never liked your axe left by the

Fires. You could see where I'm going if you'd take the hood off

Of your heart. Isn't it always about the love you forgot to remember? 

 

Here at the end of the world I want to see your eyes

With you inside them again. I'm sure that's as foolish as it gets.

But I was never that smart to begin with. I want to say

 

I'm a poet because of you, but you had nothing to do with

it. I would still have stumbled over my words. Would have walked away

from the saved seat. Never liked your sad galleries hanging in my head.

 

Only need my love to remain capable of opening to include you, whether

Or not yours needs me. Here at the end of the world let's

Have this toast: may we wake in time to drive the villains out.  dp   




A Swing and a Miss, or Bring Your Bathing Suit Next Time by Darryl Price

 

The winds are alive so you

Can probably connect the

Rest of the dots yourself. The

Winds are alive, you ought to

Be glad. This means we can see

Clearly to underlying

Connections between all things.

 

The winds are alive, you should

Have no trouble knowing a

Look for what it is. Live winds

Doesn't mean I can't feel the

Loneliness. A wind in the

Wind sometimes makes me feel sad,

But I won't deny it. The

 

Winds are alive, we could make

A revolution out of

This fact. That's what I'm saying.

These winds strung among stars are

Meant as ways to clarify

The message even farther:

It matters to me that you

 

Are caressed, are given birds

And swinging leaves. Clouds can make

Their own wish for you as they

Please. The winds are alive and

I am not indifferent

To the sands where you run. The

Winds are alive and it's not

 

Much to go on I know, but

If I could spare you the doubts

I would. The winds are alive,

Entwine, fall in love. Alive

Like a sunset over a

Timeless sea. Close your eyes. Let

this whisper, like a lover,

 

Its all-consuming passion.

The winds are alive with all

Admiration for you, true

Thanks for you, and my warmest

Regards. Whatever else may

Befall you in these summer

Days at least you'll have a friend

 

To call upon. The winds are

Alive, sometimes wet with tears,

Okay, but they come out of

It. The winds are alive and

So are we. In honor of

That I post this letter in-

Side life's open container. dp




 

Spears


There's something sleeping in my head, I want

to wake it up. Something sleeping on an

impossibly tight rope. There's a feeling

hiding in my heart, I want to let it

 

out. You know what I mean. It's not about

birds. Not about windows or curtains. It's

a choice. Maybe it's only mine. Something

aching in my ear, wanting to be a

 

recognized understanding. The whole thing

is crushing to the spirit. They don't want

to be friendly, not unless you say the

right words in exactly the right way. Who's

 

got time for that? Some of them are ready

to pick up spears. Some only want to help

you to see your light. And in between there

are dark ones who only respond to the

 

same. You're already on the ride. And so

are they. That's all we know about the love

that seems to know everything. There's something

dreaming of a hope, I want to join in.

 

Something dancing despite all the plastic

red buttons in the hands of all the sick

minds. Let me do the same, while I've still got

the time and the inclination to keep

 

going to the box of paints in my bag.  

I've got my own relationship with the

sunflowers to draw upon. Something that

means more than bombs. Something that makes me smile.

 

You don't want to see my hands doing a

miraculous thing with paper any

more than I want to see yours painting a

purple giraffe with paisley prints for spots.

 

I get it. But we each must live until

we die. And if it's not for each other

then there is no road worth traveling on.

There's something that is rowing a boat to

 

your heart for me, I'm somewhere in that sky.

Maybe a seagull, maybe the wind, or

A splash or a crash of a wave. Could be

A moment of sunlight. But it's all true.  

Endcap