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Life Without a Heart


by Darryl Price


isn't so hard to like if you can just squint on through the minutes like a good McGoo through the headline happy seasons and sleep most of the day. It only hurts real bad whenever you try to carry off a roaring laugh instead of a restless cough. No that action in and of itself is a worn out piece of a sadly closed down for good no good joke heaped upon my own worn down soul, good for nothing useful I can think of, empty as a run over paper cup, certainly not for singing beautiful secrets into your garden's pretty flowers anymore. Nothing really makes me  laugh like everything still matters anymore.The odd thing is that single runaway tears still drop like suddenly, softly missing stars. I hear them splash into the rolling nothingness I can feel sometimes, so far and far away now like the wings of a couple of ancient bells. Otherwise you know it's all still pretty much the same awful sunlit stench of life every time I waken to the slap of another unanswered dream's extinguishing smoke. No new thing comes into view except the damned view:

 

Oh I do wish I did have something more red this time than more blue this time to

fling up in the silly air like  ribbons or neon string for you now, all I can come up

with are chewed on memories that look remarkably 

like the threads of a once cherished

but now gone to seed favorite blanket of mine. I always

said I was against nostalgia

as a way of life, but I yearn, I do,

for a drink again of something utterly

new. I collected all these years of

these shells for garbage.And now once more I

cast them like dice at your old name. Let them

sink away, please, take them back, back into

the deepest part of everything, far from

where I sit with my emptiness, an old

silent writer with no words for love.

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