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The Green Light


by Darryl Price



Like Aurora, my favorite color is moss green. 
Anything else is a lie told to throw 
you off the scent. You will abandon her. 
Just like you will abandon me. Green. We 
were walking through the thick leaves, looking for 
the way in. That kind of silence. We 
disturbed nothing, only because we had no harm 
in our hearts. It's you we are trying 

to get away from, you we are trying 
to reach. You will abandon this message. You 
will abandon the one true gift as it 
is being given. It's only a matter of 
time. Green. We touched somehow. I liked the 
end tips of her fingers more than almost 
anything else on this planet. She may have 
smiled, but only because she felt home. You 

will abandon her lovely eyes. You will call 
her lovely skin nothing but mushrooms. You will 
abandon me to the wolves, which is what 
you were planning to do all along. We 
were hoping to fall through the earth and 
be swallowed together. Alone would have been alright, 
too. She's good at being alone, because she 
cares so much to be small. Green has 

to have its own sacred place where it 
can read books, paint if it likes and 
write music. Isn't that what she said? She 
wasn't talking about books. She was talking about 
light. She didn't mean paint, she meant dance 
and make light. Play in light. Play with 
light. Notice light. Be the light. Welcome it 
to your home and heart. Magnetism is magnetism, 

but it is also communion, telling yourself that 
you have not forgotten any living thing. Of 
course she is scared you will find her 
out and cause harm. That's why she wants 
to find you first. To offer you peace. 
Instead you will abandon all prospects for peace 
once you get to know her voice, because
you are just that greedy. You will not 

abandon your guns however. Even if she gets 
you to stop and listen. But what you 
don't know is how she is creating something 
beyond listening and beyond all the guns that 
ever were or ever will be. Beyond Green. 
It's an ancient story within a story being 
told by a dreamer, a thinker, for the 
first time again. We are being called upon. 



Bonus poems:




That One Trick

by Darryl Price


You've fallen for it, too. Thinking there 
is only one path to saying or 
hearing I'm in love. Gathering all 

the clues you know nothing about, please 
open your eyes. If it were only 
that easy, everyone would simply 

go home, collect their box of shit and 
stop being a fool and wake. I was 
always the last to know, I know, but 

not in what I always am, believe
me. See, it's the same. Some people can 
only see those they can define as 

sitting there being quiet. I was 
never one of those standing in the 
dirty sad ocean, waiting to be 

taken under by a terrible 
dark mystery. I want to know the 
truth, what is pure. Meet it head on. I 

don't think I'm sorry. You pushed me. Pushed 
me. Some of us can walk around in 
our bedtime dreams. It's where we belong. 

You can't come in if you can't stay more
awake than broken. That's the rule. Put
your head down. Grab an arm. Come my way. 




When You Say There Is Very Little Magic

by Darryl Price


left in the world, I know you are lying. Priests 
of old used it against the wrong citizens. 
Nailed them to trees and left them there to die. When 
you say there is very little magic left 
in the world, I know you are pretending, to 

be brave. To be asleep. Things will hunt you down, 
you say. But what once things have you hunted down? 
Magic isn't careful. It's wild. When you say 
there is very little magic left in the 
whole world, I know you are hoping to not get 
caught in the act. When you say there is very 

little magic left in the world, I know you 
have not grown a garden from scratch and seed. 
You have not walked into a forest alone 
and unarmed. You have not met a new rain on 
the lonely road on your way home from work. When 

you say there is very little magic left 
in the world, I know you have not listened. It 
really doesn't matter to what. That's just some 
awful squeezing device they use to get you 
to say you are afraid. It doesn't matter 
of what. When you say there is very little 

magic left in the world, I know you are full 
of hidden tears that need to be released. When 
you say there is very little magic left 
in the world, I know you are refusing to 
look me in the eyes. I know you are choosing 

to be full of doubt. When you say there's very 
little magic left in the world, I know you 
are warning me to stay far away. You are 
mad. You are pulling your lips back to reveal 
your gums. You are showing me your longest teeth. 
You have now forgotten how to smile without 

biting. It's okay. Because you don't mean it 
when you do. Your faith is in nothing. Except 
for hollow breath. The possessed hole. The end. But 
you do know a better conversation. When 
you say there is very little magic left 

in the world, I know you don't mean it. When we 
were just children we played together because 
it was the honest thing to do. It was an 
uncorrupted apple we touched, tenderly 
to share in a holy circle.  Because we 
wanted to trust someone in a dream.  It's like 

that. When you say there is very little of 
the old magic left in the world, I know you 
have been seriously hit on the head by 
monsters in a ramshackle cave somewhere. The 
clamped down neighborhoods can hide a lot of pain 

in your chest. But your pain is not your master. 
When you say there is very little magic 
left in the world, I know you have forgotten 
flowers. I'm still your friend. You're still my friend. When 
you say there is very little magic left 
in the world, I know you have embraced regret.  
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