by Darryl Price
There are stranded people just like us, that's
Not necessarily what I'm looking for.
Negativity won't pull us through the
Barb-wired halls of hate. And even if I
Was the only one, I wouldn't want you
To look any different. I'm older
Now, no one invites me up to their moons
Any more. That's about as deep as it gets.
I don't feel all that good about getting
The ghost vote from you now and then. It would
Have been so nice to know you cared when I
Was freezing in the loveless city and
All my straggled books were crammed onto the
Crude visionary shelves like toy soldiers
Acting out some crazed invented scene
Of fevered battle. It was bad enough
Without your sewn sort of love, to keep me
Warm, to walk me to the bus stop, to keep
Me from going to trial in my head. The
Wallflower scene I was interested
In was the one we were making. There are
Clear enough people I'm guessing like us
Out there walking around, but they have gone
Through so many gravity punching jealous
Changes by now they only resemble
Themselves in mistaken gestures. Wouldn't call
Them out because no one needs to take my
Place. Let them have their exhausted peace in
The big goodbye mirror. I'm still looking
Outside the gates for more than I ever
Bargained for. Oh shit they're telling me all
They want from me is more entertainment,
Less train conversation. Well I'd rather
See you naked again. I'd rather get
Close to you. That's as much as I know, as
much as I want to know. The battle of
the books was just a metaphor, a kind
of staged plea for some sanity against
all the stacked loneliness in the world, a
last attempt at finding one's true presence.
I Don't Know Where the Buried Lantern Goes
When your steaming dragon like hand has so
casually dropped the treasured pine cone
of our hearts from its celestial stitch
like a too hot to handle glowing star.
I'm not even sure it is up to me to
name such altogether pedestrian
phenomenon, taking the risk as it
were for generations after that, i.e.
we would always know such rich witness and
cry out on your behalf like any group
of trained to please acrobatic bears for
a few sad hours of cramped sleep and something
indistinguishable to eat. No, I
fear this time you've missed your mark, and the moon
long ago rose up and gave its greatest
single performance to a bunch of wild
dogs pouring themselves up and down the soft
heavenly hills like a warm syrup. But
that is of no real consequence to our
little circle of flaming tigers and
poorly painted ponies, is it? We are
after all still in the midst of this small
folding poem of ours, thrashing through the
many fake paper drums like disturbed birds
but finding no exits, when with all our
broken heads we believe the end of the
performance is a foregone conclusion.
I wonder who gets the satisfaction
out of seeing the lights come on inside?
Yeah, now I see where I'm going again.
These spelling footprints a misplaced refrain.
You've squeezed your last song out of my throat.
by Darryl Price
You don't understand. I wasn't standing anywhere but
In my own moment in the sky. You
Don't understand. You weren't the only person suddenly
Flying. I could still see you. This was
A comfort for me. If you understood your
Radio would have been tuned into something much
More like runaway moonlight than the oceans of
Your need to know more and more about
Those cold, cold stars that gave us the
Sad frozen news over and over like a
Crazy slap to the face. Look at me.
I don't know what we were, but we
Saw no beautiful angels. Those who sensed us
Thought they were no longer alone in the
Wonderment of a truly unfeeling universe. I couldn't
Bear to be that kind of hope for
Any one. It just didn't seem fair. You
Made your choice right then and I made
Mine by a thread. I still think you
Were wrong. The trouble with love is that
The days change. People change into different versions
Of themselves and you never know whom you
Are going to get. The snowflakes pile up.
The snail sun eventually gets up and grabs
His shovel and goes about his ancient work
Ethic like a pro. You don't understand I
Guess. Your expectations lowered my head to such
A degree that there was no way to
Look you in the eye without burning up
And turning to ash. You weren't ringing a
Bell unless it summoned your own dinner. That's
Just not something I can believe for long.
Wild Geranium (Crane's-Bill)
by Darryl Price
All rights reserved.
It's easy to wish the other guy could walk in your shoes, but that's mostly petty bitching. Everyone's life has a nasty spill or two--because we know when the ride ends we'll wish we could get back on again--one more time, more prepared to deal with the dropping of our stomachs in the wind. But I don't want to crawl. I want to stand in my own shoes, on my own, of my own balance, even if I end up getting blown away in the end.