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Sitting Around the Cartoon Campfire


by Darryl Price


Looking at the Moon, thinking: is this then the parallel 
room I used to keep my heart in? Got a 
nice golden pair of solo fireplaces. I'll give it that. 
But. I don't want to invite anything else into the 
now story of its four walls. It doesn't matter to 
me if no one knocks on that door ever again. 
I'm too tired to hope for much more than a 
soft couple of maybe interesting shadows, slotting themselves neatly between 
the passing teardrops, raining outside the crisscrossed windows. Anyway. I 
don't mind. I say

it's not too bad. I did 
the best I could to make a work of original 
outsider art out of the soft gang of incorruptible birds 
setting high flying traps outside my window. I must admit 
when you tore down the maroon curtains and dramatically wrapped 
them seductively around your naked self, I thought you were 
only making a latest fashion statement, not a robbery diversion. 
I didn't get the allusion for the longest time. Only  
now do I feel like something has straightened out in 
me, has finally happened in here, but it

could be 
just a crack upon the light finally settling into the 
stalactite ceiling joints. It could be the crack is in 
my own head, letting out too many halfway baked bean 
ideas. I swear I can hear bagpipes rampaging through a 
child's ghostly birthday party. They're not all a joyful sound 
to me, but a lament and a plea for some 
instant return to sanity( and sea). The ocean has a 
mighty string pull, even this far out from heaven's shores. 
Oh, I'm pretty sure they don't want the likes of 
me all up in there, I've got way too many

questions. I'd be the first one to ask, hey, fellows, 
why all the sorrow, when such a little bit goes 
such an awful long, long way? I'd be thrown out 
with all of my crazy poems, fluttering down beside me
like store-bought artificial tears, artificial petals, artificial butterfly wings. Yes, 
it's going to be a long, slow fall back down 
to the ruined ground I'm afraid. Like heavy dyed blue 
wool blankets, crumpled up in the wintery corner; no one 
is going to want to have to lift those up 
all by themselves, if

they don't have to. I can't 
say I blame them. I made my narrow escape long  
ago. I won't give up that sheer thread of freedom 
now. I could always feel it caught in my throat  
you know, as a boy, the path on a forever 
Cosmo trajectory and I was stapled to it by a 
million tacky sad stars. I'd like to share a cigarette 
with a comedian now. I can't give it up, that 
kind of bursting forth laughter. and I won't. That's all 
I know for sure. The rest is like pulling yourself 
roughly through a small cluster of sticker bushes, you don't 
have a fun

choice if you want to cling to 
an authentic existence of songs about the loneliest experience. Oh. 
Don't worry, I see the irony there. You're damned if 
you do and lonely if you don't. The skeletons dance 
regardless of all the funny faces you'll be pulling; make 
to clear yourself of all impending charges. But, what they 
say on eye in the sky television is not what 
we should ever want to see happening in real life. 
You mustn't be quiet. Whatever it is it doesn't matter, 
but to me, and for me, I've always

treasured what 
no one else could seem to hear was going on. 
And inside that wonderous landscape of impertinent noises I somehow 
found you, dancing like a mythical faun, around a sun-beaming, 
splashing fountain of youth. I could no more give up 
dreaming that dream again than give up breathing for a 
good enough living. So there you go, more poems than 
you'll ever know what to do with. And one last 
stupid thing: I've never felt so glad in my entire 
life to let go of my few earnest words and

believe that they'll surely make their own friendly way back 
home again. A sweet Goodnight to all of you then. 
And the moon with her flawless arched back. Especially the 
hanging down moon. Yes, it's you I'm talking about. It's 
always been about you. How many times do I have 
to say it? I'm tired of saying it, to be 
quite honest, but pretending it isn't true is just not 
me. I could wish you a light, simple rain, but  
there's just too many interpretations of that sly report for 
a good night's sleep to occur. It isn't a feather, 
but then what is? Now you see me. Now. You. 
Don't.

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