My Paper Boats, Your Paper Boat

by Darryl Price


You make your art when you can and

Perhaps vice versa. You really

Don't know what that means? Consult your tarot. You make your

Art and visualize your mind


As a large pool of water. You

Make your art and if you're lucky

They may not want to talk to you about

Your methods. What do you have to say now, eh?


The only honest answer is

Whatever moves me because you

Don't want to put music or any other feeling in a cruel

Box. You make your art and renew


Your life in the process. You make

Your art and so plant your trees. Let's

Keep it simple, shall we? You make your art

And rediscover the courage


To live. You make your art and that's

What you are doing here in the first place. You make

Your art and show up without an approved

Appointment. You make your art and


Buy someone, a stranger, an ice cream cone. You make

Your art and dribble the ball. You

Make your art and all that sick crap

Becomes a beat up country map unto


Itself. You make your art and you

Go to the lonely crowded beach and you bring back

The color of the sky and the

Seashells in her far away eyes. You make your


Art and the most beautiful things tend to

Happen. But it's still only a small

Paper boat. You know the rest. You

Make your art and she continues


To float on by. You make your art

As you tear at the ugly mask on your face,

But it's too late. You make your art

And one day you'll be the dead thing


Losing bone slowly to the mud and grime. You make your

Art and you enjoy food less. You

Make your art and it feels so good,

Until it doesn't. Then you enter


The forest alone. You make your

Art and try hard not to smile at nothing. You make

Your art and smell of freshly turned over earth. You make

Your art and leave the ufo sightings


To the old musicians and their secret lovers.

You make your art and the whole scene

Full of stars begins to tremble

Under your skin like soft and red floating flowers. 

Bonus poems:

Your Boredoms(early draft)

by Darryl Price


Your boredoms are not my fascinations. Your boredoms

Belong to the ice caves with the Mammoths,

Although haven't they been tortured enough by the

Changing winds? Your boredoms are far from twinkling


Objects in the beaks of ancient crows, prophesying

A new age of heartbreak and misunderstanding.  Your

Boredoms, I'll do my best to escape them,

But that means you, too. Your boredoms need


To disappear permanently. Your boredoms send a frightened

Animal into the thorns of no contest, I

Wonder if you could be more gentle? Your

Boredoms have never sung into the wind, have


Always bent themselves towards the death of innocents.

Your boredoms don't love babies. Your boredoms are

Sharing a joint in a back alleyway at

Almost dawn. Your boredoms are like my head


Hurts. Take it or leave it. Your boredoms

Having already used the key, have left the

Door unlocked. Your boredoms like the flu are

Taking a long nap. Your boredoms have set


The wordless table. Your boredoms are upturning the

Waiting guitars with miserable glee. Only the shadows

Agree. Your boredom's pockets are full of damaged

Money. Your boredoms are missing a foot, maybe


A few fingers, certainly a heartbeat. Your boredoms

Are moving noiselessly towards cynicism. Your boredoms, like

The rest of the sheep, are floating with

Nothing to guide them but their stomachs. Your


Boredoms are making me feel sunk, falsely accuse

Every star of failing to shine. Your boredoms

Have thrown my poetry into the bushes. Your

Boredoms have come home minus that impossible kiss. 

The Flowers(first draft)


For Emily Dickinson


Home is gone. I'm an orphan now meaning I wasn't

Always so alone. Everyone I see is running from something.

But they still sail their candles to the moon hoping

To awaken someone on the other side of this glory

Who might send them back a kind thought or give


A smile in the form of birds. I've never received

The feather from the heavens with my name on it.

You and I are not alike in our dogs, but

I still like to think of you walking down streets

At night with yours, brushing the rain or the quiet


With an intensity unlike any other. That was your gift

More than your red hair, more than your refusal to

Give up your name or your fight with God and

The devil, believing both of them to be inadequate to

The task of being near enough to you to break


Your heart more than it already was. Instead you broke

Your own heart, and mine with it. Who knew you

Had power that could wait through centuries to explode like

A hurricane? Did the flowers ever know this? The Irish?

Perhaps the good children in the garden? All I know


Is here we are together again, not in a dream,

But in a sense of the world, getting near the

End of something terribly unimaginable and I only wish I

Had your hand to hold. I suppose that is very

Selfish of me. You let your hand go where it


Wanted to go and nowhere else. You gave it the

Most important task of all, to put your cruel abandonment

Into stored letters, without asking for forgiveness, without a script

Of regret. You telegraphed that pain to the stars and

Dared them to respond, all the while knowing full well


How they laughed behind your back. But the dog was

Faithful, the writing desk was faithful, the flowers were never

Going to go anywhere without you again, even the rain

On the windows was a companion you could count on

To see you as you truly were, valiant warrior with


A sewn booklet of original coded words, meant to open

Locks, meant to join clouds of butterflies. Your home now

Is everywhere, mine is still somewhat hazy in the distance.

I don't know why it means so much to me

To speak to you in this way. I'm not looking


For your answer. As Paul said to John, you'd probably

Say that we were worlds apart, but I feel something

Different today. I would have liked to see you smile

With some teeth, or the back of your head tied

In a ponytail instead of a bun. I think you


would have breathed a sigh of relief in a pair

of old comfortable jeans. You got a message to me.

I'm not talking about all the others here. This is

As much as I can do for you, but I'm

So glad. It's an honor. Thank you, oh singing wind.      

 Wheatfield, Columbus


When the sun explodes, can we

Still go to the dance? When the

Sun explodes, do we still get

Our vote? Do we have to wear


Uncomfortable clothing

In case anyone sees us

Who might think they are better

Than us because of money?


When the sun explodes, I think

I'm going to go swimming

In the nude and I hope you'll

Come with me. When the dear old


Sun goes on a sneezing rampage

I'll see if there are any

Seats left near the exit

Signs. When the sun explodes, perhaps


You would be kind enough

To let me hold your hand? When

The stars are flung against the

Far walls like burning paint, will


You try to remember my

Name for you when we have snuggled

Together for warmth? When

The sun explodes, I fully


Expect you to come walking

Through that door. When the sun bursts,

All my poems will become

A monument to our love.