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The Lonely Genius


by Darryl Price



was washing her hands and looking
in the mirror and hoping to
see someone who could tell her
the way home again. She wasn't

sure why she should want to 
go there except maybe to find
the missing piece that had always
eluded her. The lonely genius put

on her clothes but the old
familiarity wasn't as comfortable as it
had once seemed to be. Pants 
and shirt seemed to be at

odds with her somehow. The lonely
genius panicked when she couldn't find
her glasses but then remembered they
were pushed on top of her 

head, a habit she had picked
up from her older sister when 
they were both in college. At
least my shoes never let me 

down, she thought. I'm too smart
to be sad, she thought. Work 
and thinking are the not foolish
things, she countered. So why is

there something broken and dangling inside
me now? What did I do 
to deserve this? The lonely genius
noticed an old floppy hat sitting

slumped over some sweaters in the
top corner of the closet before
she had time to close the 
door. It looked sadder than she 

felt. Why am I being so
silly, she thought. What is wrong 
with me? I must be getting  
a cold, but I never get 

sick. She brushed the brim off
with a wave of her hand.
Back in the bathroom with her
glasses hanging onto her nose like

an exotic butterfly she pushed the
hat down on her head. She
smiled. She turned sideways. She glanced
up shyly at herself and gave 

a small crooked grin. This is 
stupid, she thought. Is this what 
people do, she thought. Why am 
I crying? She grabbed her keys

off of the dresser and stumbled
down the steps. Stupid plants, she 
said to no one. Stupid kitchen 
sink. Stupid rugs. Stupid books.Stupid

coffee maker. Leave me alone, she 
shouted. I just want to feel 
something else besides your company. Is
that so wrong? No appliance dared

speak up. The lonely genius punched
a symbol for a number into 
her phone, her brain beginning to
pick up speed with every second 

wasted. It's me. I'm not coming 
in today. Because I don't feel 
like it, she thought. I'm not 
feeling well, she said. Yes, tomorrow. dp



Bonus poem:



Trees by Darryl Price

It all comes down to how you are able 
to move energy around. If you get 
real good at passing it there will always 
be more to come because you've made the road 
work for a living. You and the road have 
to make the magic happen between you.
 
It probably feels like being trapped in 
an hourglass if you're unwilling to 
even consider talking to trees. What 
I mean is everything wants to know who 
you think you are and what you are doing. 
Sometimes the answer's simple enough: I 

am you as me. You are me as you. And 
sometimes it's complicated: I'm on a 
secret mission to save a life. Joni 
Mitchell comes on the radio. It stops 
you in your tracks. You know what she's asking: 
how can you say you don't know me? If you 

know yourself, then you know me, know life is 
endlessly beautiful. Life is shit. How 
can we give each other a moment's peace
without completely falling away in 
nothingness forever? I don't know, but 
I think it matters. I think it matters 

to me. I've only learned to write a prose 
poem. The rest is still a mustery. 
My body's been through the ringer. My mind 
is still in love with music. A  lovely 
mystery. My body's been here with me 
this whole time. I have to say I like this 

being with trees. Always have. It's a safe 
space in my own illusion. I know what's 
going to happen. Things fall apart. All 
good and bad people disappear one by 
one. Love gets pressed between the pages of 
a book on birds. But poets go on with 

it until the end. Wouldn't you know it? 
The sky is starting to cry. If I just 
quietly continue to sit here the 
leafy tears will have washed away my first 
meaning into something less realized. 
My good shoes are beginning to squeek and 

want something more comforting than my sad 
eyernal musing.I stretch my tired feet
inside them to say all is well, this is 
not the end flood, just another trickling 
tributary. We'll make it home and dry 
off together like always. Goodbye trees. dp


Tenderness by Darryl Price

I wouldn't fall apart if I could just 
remain a child and not be a stranger, 
but I have a permanent rip in my 
lost soul that none of you have ever touched 
with any special tenderness. Wouldn't 
fall apart to take your hand once again 
and pour out my head like an hourglass of 
its useless colorless sand. You could kick 
all the grains into oblivion. You 
could put your hands on your hips and laugh at 

the silly glass face, stretching your uncomprehending 
grin to the bluest of skies 
beyond.But it would not kill my love for 
you. I've always seen the beautiful in 
you.I wouldn't fall apart if I saw 
you shouting with glee and eating an ice 
cream with identical ribbons streaming 
from your pretty belt into the summer 
winds like some kind of new creative flags. 
I'd silently salute you and I do. 

Thank you for your service to being you. 
That's a place like home to me. One I have 
forever been banished from, but I will 
defend it with every breath taken or
left in me.I wouldn't fall apart to 
hear you sing. It's one of my fondest young 
memories. Peter Pan and I may have 
parted company as old pirates with 
no more adventures to be had in this 
sad lifetime, but our last handshake was pure
 
and genuine. I wouldn't fall apart  
to slip you this poem. This ticket has
already been punched. It's no invite. The
bell has been released from its masking tape
tower.It really doesn't matter. I 
wouldn't fall apart. You never listen. 
I wasn't prepared. I was curious. 
I wouldn't fall apart because I had
no choice once the room disappeared under
my feet. My sorrow is only first note. dp

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