The Fake Humility of Stars is a Terrible Thing to Waste( in Three Recycled Parts)

by Darryl Price

F Bomb 


I am coming in like a blackbird. Like I'm going

to tickle your mud. I am coming in carrying a

half-sunk message backward. Is that your lonesome answer? I am

coming in to sweep for all saints. 'Course I didn't


just wake up with that nutty feeling. I am coming in

like yellow daffodils. I am coming in because I was

thrown into a ditch. Again, here I am coming in drunk

as dust. I am coming in for nothing's sake and naked


at last. I am coming in with swirling feathers punched

out but will you ever lift a hand for my forgiveness? 

Coming in screaming like birch trees, branches still burning 

from a huge blast of milky snow. Nobody knows the first of why.







Ape Shit


We go to the circus

to walk a thin cracked line.


Not to climb a hill. We

go to the moon to raise


a drowning man's fist to

the seeds of loneliness


but still sleep alone. We

go to the deep market  


to ache and wish for a

little love then as now.


We go to the garden

to outrun God's silent


train together as one.

Then we hammer the fruit home.







The Giggles


I don't have time to meet your demands. This poem

is the only money I have left that shines. I don't

have the time to find myself. This poem has happened.

Don't have time to express my love. This poem could

have been worse. I don't have time to understand the spinning

night sky. This poem is asleep in your soul like

any silence. Don't have time to unwind all the lights

as they may happen to appear. I don't have time for

one more cup. This poem is the last hand. This

poem wants what it wants out of your spread-out prose.

Bonus poem:

 I Don't Know(a first draft)


what you could want from me

that won't end up hurting

you. Hours later I can

still find your body in

the air as if you were


folded up in my hands 

like a big warm towel.

The urgent weight of your

cold feet alone is pressed

all around me like the


sudden urge to drown in

a hole in the soft day's  

rainy realities.

I'm afraid it's what you seem to

do best. You turn us all into   


a strange swirling  

echoing disappearance.

I'd much rather

have you laugh at me. I

know for instance your teeth


are somewhat bad but they're

original. The same could be

said about your flour sack of a heart.

Or your loosely tattooed on 

dress. These things make a life


come into view like a blown up

splattered creature. But I

continue to feel like

humming you in my mind.

Like reaching for your hair


with just a couple of straightened

fingers. Like I'm running

away but somehow still

arriving back in front

of you, at the faintest false stops to those always looping around us stars.