Old Shoes (for Stranded Soles)

There are those people, stranded on the moon, 

just like us, but that's not necessarily 

what I'm looking for here (though). Panic plus 

negativity won't pull us any 

closer to freedom through the barbed-wire halls 

of traditional hate. And that means even 

if I was the only one with a 

master plan, I still wouldn't want you to 

look any different in the mirror. 

Okay, so I'm older now; no one invites 

me up to their moon base rooms any

more for a peek at their special, secret 

hidden stairs. That's about as deep as it 

gets in the Milky Way. I don't feel all 

that good, I must admit, about getting 

the final ghost votes from you now, and certainly

not then. It would have been so nice 

to know you cared when I was freezing in 

the loveless city's dark corners, and all

my straggled about books were crammed onto 

the crude visionary shelves like paint-chipped 

toy soldiers, acting out some crazed, uninvited 

last scene of feverish battle to 

the frozen death. It was bad enough without 

your sewn up sort of love to keep me 

always thinking I was preparing to 

be at last warmed, to walk me to the bus 

stop, to keep me from going on trial in

my own dreamer's head. The wildflower scene 

I was mostly interested in was 

the fun one where we were good at making 

up new things for ourselves. There are cleared enough 

people, I'm guessing, there must be, like 

some of us were, still out there, walking around 

on musical soles, but they have gone

through so many gravity punching, jealous

changes by now that they only half 

resemble themselves, inside all the quiet, 

mistaken gestures of loneliness. 

I  wouldn't call them out myself because 

no one needs to take my place in line. Let 

them have their inexhaustible peace,  

the big goodbye likelihood of life's endless 

pageantry. I'm still looking outside

the rusted gates of heaven for more than 

I ever bargained for. Oh shit, they're telling 

me all they really want from me now 

is some more free entertainment, less trains

to catch, no conversations. Well, I'd rather

see you naked again. I'd rather 

get even closer with and to you. That's 

really as much as I know for sure, maybe 

as much as I want to know. The battle 

of the books was just a cheap metaphor, 

a kind of staged plea for some kind of 

instant sanity against all the stacked-

up unfair loneliness in this cold, cold 

world of more and more stuff, a last failed attempt 

at finding one's true presence among so 

much bird shadow come calling by default.  

   Bonus poems:

I Don't Know Where the Buried Lantern Goes to Sleep When It's Hungry

When your steaming dragon like hand has so

casually dropped the treasured pine cone

of our hearts from its celestial stitch

like a too hot to handle glowing star.

I'm not even sure it is up to me to

name such altogether pedestrian

phenomenon, taking the risk as it

were for generations after that, i.e.

we would always know such rich witness and

cry out on your behalf like any group

of trained to please acrobatic bears for

a few sad hours of cramped sleeping together and something

indistinguishable to eat. No, I

fear this time you've missed your practiced mark, and the moon

long ago rose up and gave its greatest

single performance to a bunch of wild

dogs pouring themselves up and down the soft

heavenly hills like a warm pungent syrup. But

that is of no real consequence to our

little circle of flaming tigers is it, and

poorly painted ponies, is it? We are

after all still in the midst of this small

folding poem of ours, thrashing through the

many fake paper drums like disturbed birds

but finding no exits, when with all our

broken heads we believe the end of the

performance is a foregone conclusion to anyone with a brain.

I wonder who gets the satisfaction

out of seeing the lights come on again inside?

Yeah, now I see where I'm going again.

These spelling footprints a misplaced refrain.  

You've squeezed your last song out of my throat I swear. 

by Darryl Price