by Darryl Price
It's important to make a sure
sound. It's not impossible you know.
It's just funny I suppose like
in a dream of another dream.
All these things could be tumbled
together to make us a big
clay hero, someone not afraid to
get up and speak in a
normal voice, his or her own.
That's all I've ever wanted, to
be a real boy of my
own making, but there's so many
versions floating around on every surface
that you start to feel boxed
in, like you're dying inside. Like
you're not going to make it
without a beautiful blue fairy on
your side. You should tell someone
who cares about the sure sound
thing, I bet they might want
to hear about it, especially if
it's worth a real hearty laughing
session together. All I've got to
offer you now is this hand
full of the wrong torn out
poems and not much else to
make a pretty new landscape with.
You're in it, if you're willing,
I'll give it a try. I
might make a friendly pony out
of wild flower stalks, but it's
more likely to be a broken
over tree laden with psychedelic owls.
I do like my clouds generally
speaking and most stars are okay—
because they always make you aware
of the repetition of roofs, and
roofs always tell the best time-tested
stories. And you can dance on
top of them for hours. And
you can lean against the willing
moon all night long and eat
cheese and drink wine. Well. That's
kind of the lazy plan, one
way that's not been felt to
be so far away from the
buttery truth any more. I'm still
falling. That's for sure. Is that
my sure sound then? How long
do you fall? Perhaps I'll just
open the tiny gate a bit
and let the grey pony graze
anywhere it wants. It knows where
home is, which is a little
more than I can say about
myself right now. I'm still falling!
And after all this time! How
many more ways can I implore
you? Even Alice eventually hit ground.
There're no Angels--it's all people.
How to Run Your Business in Cold Blood, or Bullets For Peace, or The Scope of the Greed
1.15 Million Americans Have Been Killed by Guns Since John Lennon's Death
They took a cowardly shot
at Paris. They shot a tired,
generous, smiling John in
the Daddy back. Just saying.
gun isn't made to kill an
unarmed rabbit for supper
for a hungry family
of six. They shot the gifted,
young Kennedys through the head.
They shot poor Martin on a
motel porch. They shot up a
bunch of school kids like paper
dolls. Movie goers were killed
without feeling anything
like goodwill or remorse. A
guy covered up his girlfriend
with his own physical life
and died in the hail. A man
and his wife opened fire on
their friends and coworkers in
spite of an innocently
sleeping baby at home. But
we're not allowed to talk guns.
We can buy guns, more than we'll
ever need. That couple had
a house full. Bullets are a
good business. Solid. You
know what's no longer solid?
The sound of crying. It's now
become a pool. Everybody
wants in. And I'm out.
The Planned Parenthood shooter
murdered somebody's adult
babies for the unborn ones.
Guns don't make you better. Guns
don't make you right. Guns don't make
you smarter. Guns aren't the proof
you need. Guns don't give you the
right to judge and condemn those
who disagree with your head.
Guns are weapons, pure, simple.
On the news feed you see the
would be robber put his gun
against the innocent man's
temple and pull the trigger
over and over--the gun
was jammed--but he didn't stop
trying and neither should we.
All rights reserved.
This poem is like a painting. It is a pretty big scene full of a lot of little scenes, but when added up there's only one. And I guess that's the point. There's beauty everywhere, there's life and death everywhere, but we constantly add ourselves into the mix and so the color of the paint becomes the colors of our life, a story unfolds, a heart opens or closes its doors, and still the big lump of life goes on.