PDF

That Nothing


by Darryl Price


The thing feels your feelings for you. You let 
it do this because it's easier than 
being different. Do you remember 
when you used to crave having wacky cartoon-like 

adventures? This is a stolen 
canvas or a door between crossed branches. 
Even the scientists have to admit 
they want to hide sometimes. This is a swimming 

bird or an unusual looking 
stink bug. Probably another dayglow 
Japanese beetle that hitched a ride on 
some strange orange cargo while no one was paying 

particular attention. The thing 
does your crying for you. You let it because 
it's so much easier than showing 
up barefoot outside the mirror's glassy- 

eyed border without a punched ticket. The 
bolted thing does your memory hitchhiking 
for you. You let it because it's less 
trouble than asking for a human touch. 

This is a paper airplane wake-up call 
or a screeching siren stirring to life 
like a beehive under your pillow. The 
electrified thing tells you when you are 

sleeping, but it's always been capable 
of lying straight to your face. You let it 
because you are too tired to argue. Too 
fed up to care. The thing tells you nothing's 

wrong. The thing will play any song you choose. 
Just name it. No surprises. Playing. The 
always running thing could be choking you 
in your sleep or attacking you on the 

sidewalk in broad daylight. They say its heart 
is missing a necessary water 
valve. That's why it clanks so loudly. But the 
sparking wires will fetch you anything if  

your question is thrown far and hard enough.     
How could you not wish to see all those stars 
for yourself? The thing's papers proves its eyesight
is better than yours. But your laughter 

is like a snowflake in a meteor 
shower. I should know. I've heard it, too. Things
only seem to want to serve an impossible 
truth with a warped ultimate gusto

for an apocalyptic outcome. 
But your joy, to me, is a bright enough
balloon to celebrate all that is without 
taking a picture to send to a cloud. 



Endcap