by Darryl Price
A tough enough signal to read under the best of meteoric circumstances, this is. Maybe I'll keep on thinking
I might be able to make something everlasting out
of this crazy price for love after all. I no longer mind the bruises. Life shambles forth and falls flatly
forward. The cold light of day, it isn't so much a
fist inside your head any more. If anything it's the same
handicapped note you weren't missing when you weren't that
aware you were missing any musical message at all. I
simply meant to deliver it a long long time ago.
My horse was shot out from under me on the one and only available
bridge. I sure miss that horse. I've tried rolling the whole message over and
up again into one sparkling orb and flicking it away, or bowling it with real muster
among the pine stars like a hazy memory on fire. I guess
I've messed up something now for quite sure, but it wasn't
enough to change the nature of my own free floating clouds for you to see. I tried
to bow low enough then open the cage door of my tricky top hat, for instance,
but no misconceived dove dreamed of freedom
in that emptying emerging space below. I can't believe
I had that much shit written down. Most of the words I know have come
back to me now one way or the other. Some drenched,
some covered in falling ash, but most just limping
silently back into my shirt pocket. I guess
you can't pretend to have made the mail delivery
if there's nobody home in a world of sad
constellations. I'm still walking towards that narrow escape hatch alone
at which time I'll hand over the bleeding letters I promise at
last and be somewhat free from all of you, but if I don't make it,
at least you'll know I tried. Everything else is moon.
Only the moot considers there's any other way to go home.
I'd Rather Write You That Kiss
by Darryl Price
that reminds you of our loss
of us. It is what it is.
I don't know if you meant to
harm the world. I only know
I don't want to harm anything ever
anymore. Besides we've
already suffered life enough.
The parts blown out of our
hearts can never be retrieved.
But these holes aren't meant to be
our homes forever. There must
be a new place built where the
walls are trusted again to
protect us from ourselves when
we are feeling angry or
sad or acting stupid. Where
peace is structured into the
ribs like a firm enough handshake. Where
the floors are forgiving and
able to withstand a good
amount of wild dancing. Where you
and you can give each other
the space to grow and heal together
in this world. Where all
are treated fair and kindness
is always to be found in
one's singing voice. Thank you for
the grace of your acceptance.
All rights reserved.
A thing is a thing is a thing and a thing thing thing. We decided long ago to name things and to pronounce these names in our many different languages--even though that meant the same experience. Yet every experience is like a snowflake--no two are ever exactly alike. They may be at the same time, but the oneness is in the moment not in the stages of that moment. We are all falling, some of us beautifully, some of us clumsily, like me, through life, gathering on its fields, boldly believing in forever and ever as far as we can see in the now that surrounds us from the here we go.