by Darryl Price
The world is beginning to lose its hair.
They litter the streets and scrape along merrily
in the wind like one last turn of
the world defying knob. But the thing I
want to say is how beautiful everything still
looks today inside of that inevitable loss of
wild head-space. It's like the big trees are
left on lamps and the stained glass leaves
are the round and around lampshades, illuminating the
well-worn landscapes of our lives with an incredible
inviting blanket after blanket of borrowed sun slices.
Time as monster has caught all of my
battery operated friends by the weary throat it
seems. They've all been shaken good and hard,
to another color altogether. Many of us look
washed out. But we look the same in
the eyes somehow, but something is going, I
can feel it, too. The boats can only
take us out so far. Sooner or later
we must return to the foolish shore and
walk up the muddy planks and into the
yellow rooms we know so well as saints.
I don't know what kind of goodbye I'll
finally make of this cruel play. You'll probably
do okay. It would be better to be
funny. That's what I think. I don't know.
I have no jokes that don't include looking
at the stars. I can't help it where
my mind goes. I was given the blues
at a very young age. I don't want
to fight. I'm only trying to give you
a guarantee of respect, but I can't dance.
All rights reserved.
I know you don’t want to hear this. Poetry as art is always a sweet old sad song. I’ve only wanted to sing mine to you. Just that. It’s too late now for any upward mobility or much of one. The best I can offer you is a sideways grin over my one good enough shoulder. We’ll meet again sounds so silly, way too fatalistic for people like us. This is who we are. It’s not something else. I never let you go. I thought that was the meaning of love as truth. If I was wrong, I’m sorry. My goal was and is to live in joy, even in criminal times.