Pterodactyls

 

In his head thinks he whenever I wake

I shall have a very fine discussion with

Someone, oh but finding meaning in anything that's

Just too much rich flattery, isn't it? Inside

 

His head he thinks I am writing like

A New York genius, but really he is

A bore, specific, comatose, delicate and ordinary, dull

As an unpublished art book. In his headspace

 

He thinks this time as I open the

Door and step out I won't forget to

Watch for pterodactyls. To himself he sounds strangely

Lecherous. In his mind the crumbs of madness,

 

A bitter disappointment built up over time, he's

Almost sure he will maintain a safe distance

From now on. In his head, he thinks

When did this happen to me? In his

 

Head, a big thirst, unquenchable. In his head

He thinks why should I be such a

Damned fool? In his head, he meant to

Photograph the birds-like flowers. In his head, he

 

Could see what the children said coming true.

In his head-ache he thinks what art can

Possibly wash away unhappiness this deep and wide?

In his head, behind his eyes, he sees

 

The dense dark trees making their case against

All the doves in his heart. He wasn't

Entirely innocent. In his heart, good fellow, he

marvels at the capacity to not completely disappear. 

Bonus poems:

Cartooning for The High-Brow Beginner by Darryl Price

"Climb in the back with your head in the clouds, and you're gone"

The Beatles

 

It's a laugh. Can't you take that small fact, run

With it? You must start somewhere. You don't just

Finish at the lead. The adventure is

Inherent in all things, but the central

Button may be hidden in plain sight. That's

 

Part of the fun. Draw what you like. No one

Is holding a gun to your head, but you;

And if they are, you know where you belong.

It's a laugh. But the danger, but the pain,

But the sorrow, but the trains, the silence,

 

The nuclear towns, on your knees, on your face.

It's a laugh. Start digging, peel away the

Wall paper, the clouds, the stars Your fist is

The spoon, your forehead the fork. The regime

Just repeats itself. It's a laugh. Look for

 

Yourself. Everything is a two-edged sword

Waiting for the next throat, to drink the blood,

To drop the moon. Take your time to taste it.

It's a laugh. It's a good-bye. Not always

A lullaby. Maybe you'll be one of

 

the lucky ones. It's a laugh. The color

of the sky. The color of a flower.

The color of a voice. I was here and

Now I'm not, but we're still having this same

Color together like we are possessed.   

  

The Little Jokes by Darryl Price

 

They come into your room when

you are sleeping. They tell you

how much they love you when you

are all alone and just not

listening. They sit at your

forgone writing table with

their fragile empty cups of

childhood tea. They glide down the

ever glorious moonbeams

and tumble on the buttoned

down enemy grass for hours.

You may or may not reach for

a sad drink of water. The

gray windows are gaping like

warped carnival mouths, but that

doesn't say you must go in

 

to the party. Everything

is an invitation to

a knife fight. They start gently

tapping on the quiet walls

like ectoplasmic drummers

looking for the start of a

brand new kind of river song.

It is being alone with

someone that makes all the real

difference any way. It

always has. That's what we look

to heaven for—that thrilling

notorious moment of

pure escape for two. It's not

the stolen kiss, it's the kiss

in that place where no one is

 

watching and no one's afraid,

crying over memories.

No wonder the glad lovers

piss us off so much, spooning

each other in the sun, and

singing sweetly to the sore

oozing world around them with

each step forward. It makes the

rest of us look like we are

made of crumbling manure

and not much more. They come and

they multiply. They fill each directional space

like wild horses on a hot

trail of hormonal rampage.

I take my place willingly.

I once burned on that same hill.