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Story of the Once Magnificent Big, Shaggy Tree's Awful Demise


by Darryl Price



 

The world is beginning to lose what little hair it has left.

Follicles litter the streets and scrape along merrily

in the wind like one last turn of

the world defying knob of being and knowing. But the thing I

want to say here 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 going around lampshades, illuminating the

well-worn landscapes of our lives with an incredible

inviting blanket after blanket of borrowed piping 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 on, I

can feel it, too. The boats can only

take us out so far. Sooner or later

we must return to the foolishment of shore and

walk up the muddy planks and into the

yellow rooms we all know so well as saints on wellfare.

I don't know what kind of goodbye I'll

finally make of this cruel play one day. You'll probably

 

do okay. It would be better to be

funny than fine. That's what I think. I don't know.

I have no jokes that don't include looking

at the stars for help. I can't help it where

my mind goes for hope. I was given the blues

at a very young age. I don't want

to fight the facts. I'm only trying to give you

a guarantee of respect, but I can't even dance.

   

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