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I'm Feeling the Monkey Around your Neck Isn't Quite Listening


by Darryl Price


The sky's hand's so big and
so vast that it takes our
huge sun at the end of
day and squeezes it down
to a perfect diamond--
just like Superman
with a lump of coal-- poof!--
obliterates it. Gone.

Next day it's seen floating
'round everywhere again
like an inflatable
beach ball.I can make that
one word if I want to--
this isn't scrabble you
know. All of which points us
to the point. I can make

that a period. Let
go of me. Just listen.
There's a tune out there taking its
own particular time
to pitch a note just for you. It wants
obviously to please
you. Personally I
don't care. I only want

to know when to give my
sad slide the flesh and blood
it so desires. It's
a harsh universe. What's
that you're always saying
to me? Christ if I actually
believed that
was all there was to this

breathing I would exhale
only.Here is something
taking shape in space just for you. And
there is no other you.
Damn the critics to a
lashing hell of their own
sour tongues. I can't make it
last one minute longer

or going off the final
trail any shorter than what
it takes.Okay it will
on the surface appear
to be nothing more than
words. Granted oh wise one.
But so do a lot of
things. Figure it out. What

I mean to say is I 
hope there's more to this than
that. Why don't we sit back
and see what dreams happen
next?I'm glad you're here. There.
I guess it all comes down
to mundane seating arrangements
after all, dear ones. 
  









Bonus poems:




A Sudden Window


by Darryl Price


There is someone looking for you
for him or herself. I don't know if they'll 
keep on looking forever when 
we live our present lives so far 
apart from each other. You might 
as well be behind a glass at 
all times. But I still would want that 

lucky person to somehow reach 
you and get consent to hold you. 
That would make the whole world worth it. 
Even if I can never see 
that feeling or feel that sighting 
myself. There's someone who completes
your chemical composition 

as himself, but he may not be 
that unselfish. He may refuse 
to know you as you are, and that 
would break my heart for you. Coming 
close to being almost complete 
is not the best way to walk through 
this ticking down life. But maybe 

he'll feel the inevitable 
pull, break the glass, or maybe the 
spirit of the glass'll recognize 
him and open itself up like 
a sudden window or a door 
inside the air. That's a moment 
I wish for you. That's all I'll say.  



The Unbearable Heaviness of Selfies


by Darryl Price


All you haters spreading
poison. Poison kills. Hate
is dumb. How many have
you harmed? Why do you have
to be so cutthroat? Hate
is dumb. Is my calling
hate dumb politically
incorrect? The tragedies
of war have come
to our door. Hate is dumb.
War is dumb. Haters murder
truth. Words hang in the

air because they can't believe
in themselves. Hate is
dumb. John made the mistake
of teasing weak men with
guns. You can't tease a man
with a gun. Or a hat.
Or a uniform. Hate
is dumb. War is dumb. Death
gives lillies a bad rap.
Hate is a crime against 
the practice of kindness.
Soldiers will shoot unarmed

students if given the
right order. How many 
numbers make up a soul?
How many poets are
alive in the world today?
Don't care. People aren't
numbers. Hate is dumb. The
world is sick and no one
wants to do anything
about it. It makes me
sad, but that doesn't mean
I'm not happy. I'm not,

but certain things make me
glad to believe in the 
magic of being here. 
But dumb hate is not one. 
All you haters so sure
of your propaganda
against love and compassion.
It is never too 
late. Hate kills happiness.
Generates suffering.
Hate is dumb. Life goes on.
In this we're together.





The Tiger Who Jumped Over the Moon


by Darryl Price


Lord knows we all tried to stop him 
from doing it. You're crazy we said. This 
makes you look like a lunatic. They'll hunt 
you down in even heavier droves now. You've 
upset their delicate memories. I tried to stop 
it. That's cow territory my friend I said 
but it didn't matter. He had made up 
his mind to jump and mean to and 

so he did. I'm going to miss petting 
his fuzzy head as we walked through the 
jungle together. It wasn't so much that I 
felt safe with that tiger but I prefered 
his growl to almost any other sound. It
made me feel glad to be alive. Anyway
what's done is done. He's gone. One day
I'll be gone. Maybe we'll see each other 

again and the laugh will be on something 
other than us. Or maybe it doesn't matter.
He's gone and so is a pretty big 
chunk of the world. It was funny. A 
tiger taking a flying leap over the moon 
like that. Many astronomers were puzzled by what 
they were seeing in their telescopes that night, 
that's for sure. I don't think that's why 

he did it. I think he just wanted 
to feel something else for himself. To see 
if there was more to it all than 
this barroom brawl we've been handed. I see
some stars look a little more like tiger's 
teeth tonight. Thanks for the grin my friend.
I'm writing you this poem because it's all 
I've got left. You know what it's for. 



Mirrors/srorriM


by Darryl Price



It's weird to be here. I wonder if you 
are here too. You'd probably say oh that 
was years ago. And you would be right. But 
I like the things we believed in then. Some 
of them I still do. You're old I guess. You 
were so pretty and golden in your new 
bathing suit. And I was too skinny from 
smoking too much and eating too little. 
But I was always up for writing you 
another lovesong. I don't know if we had 

troubled minds. We had aching hearts. And there 
didn't seem to be much relief for that. 
But still we laughed a lot. And we knew how 
to take care of each other. That's something. 
I don't like to hear the people calling 
other people monsters. It makes me think 
of broken mirrors. Trees full of them. Stars 
flashing them like knives. Windows on houses 
where no one has seen a living face in 
years. It's weird to be here, incapable 

of talking with you without missing the 
smallest things, except through a bunch of typed 
out words on a computer screen. I used 
to love my typewriter. The way it pressed 
each letter deep into the paper's dough, 
the crowded sentences starting to line 
up like chattering concert goers with 
thrills and unknown expectations in their 
eyes. We held hands once and it seemed like the 
only safe thing that made any real sense 

to me in the world. Now I'm like one of 
those guys walking alone on the beach, no 
big dog, no favorite frisbee, just a 
goofy fishing hat and some sunglasses. 
Not wanting to know what time it is, but 
being able to tell any way by 
the color of the sand and sea. You learn 
a few solid things and try to forget 
everything else. It's weird to be here. I'm 
still me. I wonder if you're still you. The 

you that was the most beautiful person 
in the room of beautiful people. I 
liked looking for you. And I liked finding 
you. It's weird to be here. Now is such a 
far away place to be. And here isn't 
much better. I wanted to say that I'm 
sorry, but I don't know what for. We had 
dreams that came and asked us to get into 
different cars. I didn't want you to 
go with them. I didn't trust them, but I 

trusted you. It's weird to be here. The world 
is still as cruel as a snake. It hasn't 
gotten any kinder. I hope it has 
been kind to you. Weird. But not so wrong I 
suppose. You knew how to smile. Everyone 
said so. I admired that about you. My 
crookedly round face could only try to 
almost get it right, feeling mostly out 
of place in every place, except when I 
was anywhere with you. Not so much a 

miracle, let them say, but we know, it 
was our little secret. It's weird. I made 
it into the poetry papers, but 
you're not here to read them. It's weird to be
here. It's not where I thought I'd be. It's a
rotten town everywhere you go. But I 
wouldn't call it a wasted life. We just
didn't know it would call us to leave each
other forever to the other side
of the moon. But I look up and I smile. 



Falling Rocks


by Darryl Price


Not sure I remember what's important, but I remember you. 
That's the whole problem I think. You're a drain where 
all my words end up ending up. All of them 
get lost inside you. Eventually. And I'm left with nothing 
to say. Because all my words are gone like toothpaste. 
The few I've got left only seem to repeat themselves 
in pathetic smears. But they'll have to do. Not sure
I can remember anything important, but I say your name
in my sleep. It's all become a boring animal ritual. 
I can admit that. But I remember you used to

wear this yellow teeshirt all the time like it defined
something impossible about you and your motion inside dark jeans.
It drove me mad with desire. And that made you 
laugh. Which drove me over a cliff, into an ocean, 
and left me clinging to slippery rocks for dear life.
So not sure I remember one important thing about anything
if you want to know the truth. But I know 
the song that made you sit still and look at
things like they were puzzles you were putting together in
your head with a little seductive dance. How else am 

I going to describe the sadness back to you now? 
When you're not even listening. And my readers are expecting 
me to swing this crazy thing around and show them 
the secret room inside of themselves. But a broken heart 
can only make cubist desk paintings out of its overly 
hoarded toy stuffs and hope for the best. I can't 
remember what's important to me any more. It was so 
clear to me just yesterday. Oh. Open my eyes. Let 
me see a way. Let me swim before I drown. 
Let me swim before I wash away. I remember you 

as important but I can't seem to remember why. The 
words won't tell me. I'm not sure they think we 
deserve to know the reason. Or they just might be 
trying to protect us from the tilting sun. Oh. It's 
too late for that. Oh, open my head. Let me 
see before I go completely blind from all the salt in my  
own eyes. Running down my face. For all of us 
who are left let my words fight for air. For 
all of us here let my words continue to look 
for fair meaning. And kiss you goodbye. For all the 

lonely floating pieces let my wrecked words shine through the 
slumber of time and ruin. Night and day. Open the 
curtains. I remember you. You were the question I guess
I needed to hear from this life. Thank you for 
asking me. It was a beautiful way to say hello 
and a hard way to say goodbye as the next 
question on the horizon became more solitary in its insistence
on authenticity. Maybe what was so important is not important.
But it remains with me. And I wouldn't want you 
to think of it in any other way than love. 




We Are Not Those Responsible 

for planes that lose their
precious bombs like someone's been

careless in spitting one rotten
tooth after bloody rotten tooth
all over the greenest of

forest grounds like saliva covered
seeds with no more thought
to the consequences below the

radar than to the awakening
hunger pangs of yet another
dying day for the poor

disfigured animals who used to
be gently drinking children or
for the murder of ancient

and wise guardian trees in
the night for starved dogs
who forever must endure their torturers





September 12, Lucky Number challenge

My lucky number is mushroom.
My lucky number is bat. My
lucky number is pear. My lucky
number is Milky Way. My

lucky number is cricket. is
cloud. is seahorse. Is learning a
lucky number? I think it is.
My lucky number is waterfall.

My lucky number is dragon--
which is timeless but also maybe
untameable so really it
just might zero things out. My next

lucky number is daughter. Then
there's the poem--in which we are all
allowed to say I'll get that right over to you
out loud and mean it. You'll say it's love.

P.S. My lucky number is
mercy. My lucky number is
Beatle. My lucky ones come with
their own regiment of angels. 









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