My Mind Says It Wants to Forget Everything

by Darryl Price

you think it knows about getting us as far as we
have, to the here we are boathouse where we can now stop holding onto our world
weary chains so much. How else can I slap this thing into a new 

clay pot for you? All those things that are constantly
being remembered as true love by me are gone for
good and that part of me that even remembers them

is daily fragmenting into some kind of reconditioned paper row row row your boat.
I'm seriously beginning to think I might be dangerously low
on the ink of the ages.Maybe that's just the

way it goes. You start missing tablets of vital information
so you start having several troubles getting from here all
the way over to there with any kind of real finesse or

comfortable ease.The picture changes.The picture changes. The picture changes. I don't know all about me yet. I don't want to know all about
you ever.Who am I? That's three little mutations for you right there 

all in a crisp and plastic inch worm moving along like row.. no, now it's a
pretty piping foursome singing along like another fake rock group on early black and white TV. See how quickly things do change on us? I'm
not here to write you of anything awesome I've only just discovered  lately. You'll feel everything

eventually without any help from me. Oh once upon a
time maybe I thought I might actually help you to
get in touch with the living essences of say beauty's walking

tour visits without calling it a new or the old
memory kicking in. I'm talking about a real hand to
hold onto yours. Not a movie hand holding to longingly watch
on some big ultra screen version. Not a flood of a novel without an actual ending in sight.
Not a strange message written on a hitchhiker's cardboard destination
sign, but real pungent bunches of freshly growing flowers slinging in the winds by

the side of the any road in your own sweet
imaginations. You could just put your own two trembling hands
through the poem's gauze and feel them all the way in if you

wanted , or just enjoy them freely. And then maybe you'd
pull yourself all the way inside, completely through at last and realize
that it's not a paid for magic that belongs to

you at all but the ability to think for yourself
and create a better world out of nothing. One that
is only partly made of dreaming. One that is surely

there for you to discover and explore according to your
own screwed up courage. One that is neither completely wild
nor polluted beyond poetry's help. I've written this same love soaked

letter to you out of what luck I've been able to
muster many times but it sounds like a suicide now instead of just hello
again. That's simply because I'm a sad stick figure in the

latest chapter so far. I know a lot of things
about how things work but I've been drowning in my
own words several times a day now more than ever. When I've finally

been able to free myself from the need you've always
been gone away again. Surely my sad heart must look like a pin
cushion by now. A porcupine on a deserted stretch of

road looking for a leaf to curl-up under and sleep
tightly wound into a pointy ball until the darkness and
the night are finally become one long cloak. Then we'll rise again.

Bonus poems:

The Cloud and other stories


While out stealing the sun she'd added
a most wonderful child's
out of body cry against my so easily moved chest .
I never felt despite the exhausted
limping paw of the kitchen clock
anywhere near willing to go ahhhooo. 

My sweetbird's quizzical banana-
eye then looking poor and
tender beneath the chewed ice kisses, reflects a sad
sorry strain of clumsy grown-

up living-- all matched to prove her
jealous answering mind was

never clothed in a drink,now
and then,maybe,but naked
and pure like she was singing only to me through a brown
paper bag. Selected loveliness,

meaningless syllables,
empty disregard,sunstruck and 

whispering,the full moon and some lazy stars,
and the wet swallowed up sky,unborn,an island the color  

of exreme urgencies,
great cascades of life's arts and
sciences,forsaken ,slime

encrusted, mysterious slips 
returned to faithless Sundays as if
white horses were galloping away from an expansive
ocean trail. Like anything being
the hours we boogie-woogied

through the absences that kept
trying to break us from within;

nobody works at this half life better (she's hoping) than herself --
through love's wartime suffering
of secret eyelashes and
the bitter forking of beautiful garden paths.

I have an idea.I'll
draw for you this picture of

the dear dangerous monstrous aesthetic phenomenon and,we'll listen for its response
together. Animals
dream. This might work. But
in the meantime I'm pretty sure you should go home without waking me tonight.

A Coat for Your Hiding Place
There's something secret being said everytime
you look into the words I
write and smile back from wherever
you are. It's a language invented
by the faulty moments of giving
up on being made of such
distant mystery and disappears just as
quickly.This causes a strange pang
in the thoughts. But I would
surely know that sound of you
slipping down just about anywhere,anytime,
in spite of my many sloppy
heart beats. And because of that
I might hear you coming out
of a single drop of rain
racing into a million drops of
rain like a revved up robin.
It could be the splatter. It
could be the splash. The fall
itself. But I've noticed you often
hit the bulls-eye with uncanny accuracy.
I suppose I'm dented somewhere on
the inside by each and every
stride you tend to make. So there you
have it. All nice and simple. A
portrait of the wanted. Another day
in the flow of molecules. Here
are some things I can't help:
you are large enough to fit
into the whole building I'm sitting
in like an invisible Alice. You
stretch across the highway of longing
like a hypnotizing rainbow. You are
also small enough to sit on
the end of my finger and
cause sparks to crackle out and 
type these words without any help
from me.You appear in dreams
as yourself, always. But here's the
real rub: I feel like I've
already loved and lost, like because
of you my poems flow forth.
D.P.  04/22/09