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People Get Haircuts


by Darryl Price


like they are trying to not get noticed 
by fickle death. It clearly marks them in 
a targeted way. Very ironic. 
Here's the only message I want you to 
ever have from me : quick, scramble like a  
monkey with a stolen banana in 
your tiny hairy hand--pull yourself up 
on me now, I will not let you go, I 
promise. They think that's an impossible 
scenario-- because one of us just  
might fall anyway! But I'm not talking 
about physically. If I was I 

sure wouldn't be a poet. I don't have 
arms, I've words. And words can do anything. 
People get some haircuts like it makes them 
better than others without the same look. 
Well, it doesn't. This is what I'm against. 
Don't join any army of haircuts. Get 
your hair cut or don't get your hair cut, but 
don't ask me to follow your direction 
either way. I'll decide for myself, thank 
you. People get haircuts like they are just 
showing you who you are, not showing you 
who they are. It's a con. One of the world's 

oldest. Just like marking an item up 
in price and then discounting it by that 
much. People always seem to believe in 
getting a bigger bargain. People get 
haircuts and the death planes still zoom into 
the split open skies, their bellies full of 
poisonous black darts. People get haircuts 
and the poorest children are still locked up 
in filthy cages by obedient 
adults who should know better. People get 
haircuts and the drooling stars drip through the 
wounded ozone waiting to strike us at 

the bare ankles. People get haircuts and 
go to private meetings and drive around 
in bullet proof vans and eat at fancy 
restaurants, even if it means waiting 
for hours to get seated, but they have 
no attention spans in their hearts for the 
young boys parking their cars. They take their time. 
They get fuller, all the time twisting each 
other's arms and heads into some kind of 
guilty submission to the empty throne 
of money before them. They'll go over 
the falls. They always do. But you must hang 

on. You must listen. Brave or scared, children 
are the only ones now who talk with much 
honesty to the world. Poets cheer them 
on from the bleachers of their words. Who are 
you to put them so far down? People get 
haircuts and the village bells are ringing 
out all over the planet's surface like 
warning shots before the next ghastly world 
war begins its daily slaughter of all 
innocents. People get haircuts and our 
children are being shot in their schools for 
opening a math book. Books are being 

quietly murdered to make way for more 
parking spaces. You know the score. It doesn't 
really matter. What matters is not to 
become like them when the time comes to speak 
up and state your name. It will be alright. 
Sooner or later. We don't know how long 
it will take this time. We are counting on 
you to just be yourself. Nothing more. And
nothing less. People get haircuts because
of their own reasons. Keep each other safe.
Keep each other entertained. Keep the faith
in all of us, together or apart.    



Bonus Poems:



Old Family Recipe

by Darryl Price


Be brave and kind and curious. Be brave 
and kind and curious. Be brave and kind 
and curious. Be brave and kind and be
curious. Be brave, kind and curious. 
Be brave and kind and curious. Be brave,
be kind, be curious. Be brave and kind
and curious. Be brave and kind and be
curious. Be brave, kind and curious.
Be brave and kind and curious. Always
brave and always kind, always curious.



How/Can You Live from a Broken Heart

by Darryl Price


Can you go without a start? How 
in the world will we recognize 
each other from just a photo 
of the back of a head? Can you 

live from a broken heart? When did 
you buy what they were selling? Is 
it true, you were willing to break 
into a name's sacred vault and 

cowardly steal its true meaning 
for a new lover's golden fake 
amusement? I don't know. I guess 
so. I mean, right? Here we are. Well, 

here I am at least. Somehow. But 
sometimes the pain is still almost 
unbearable. People tell me 
to get a dog. I have a dog. 

People want me to read a book. 
I have read many books. They say 
only forgiveness will unlock 
any rusted door. I don't care. 

There is nothing to forgive. Can 
you live from a broken heart? It 
doesn't matter. Much. To. Me. This 
poem isn't about that and 

you know that is true. I'd raise my 
clenched fist and shout,"Strawberry Fields 
Forever", but it still wouldn't 
answer the call for you. Nothing 

can. What's broken is broken. I 
wish I had better news for you. 
That's why the ship is waiting. That's 
why birds are flying backwards. No 

one knows the answer. They only 
tell themselves what they want to hear. 
Bells give the bell ringer his voice. 
But they don't make his life longer 

or shorter. We do all that. Can 
you live from a broken heart? The 
drunken town doctor will say it's 
all useless, and maybe it is, 

but the young folks will try to still 
believe for as long as they can 
in something new and timeless that's 
beautifully sounding its horn. 


Little Moths

by Darryl Price


Many men in history have
tried to do just that--burn you out
of the paper, pages turning

into ash and smoke. It doesn't
ease your desire to know those things
that make the world so exciting,

so amazing to see, to touch.
I know how badly you want to
become part of that light. So much

that you are willing to damage
your wings to make the point. But there
are birds and bats who would love such

a hot meal in mid-air. Crawl up
under my words, don't make a sound,
I would say, until you are safe,

but I know you deserve your plunge
into the unknown, the abyss
of your dreams like anyone else.
 
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