by Darryl Price
The whole thing is broken. It's an egg. I'm not
saying this to get you to say something else in
the sunny opposite direction of the tattooed scar upon my
backyard scene. I don't really care. It's only on me.
I'm glad as much as I can be for the
lucky ones who will remain together in one singular piece
all their abnormal lives through. I don't know how they do
it. But now you think that I should simply celebrate
the gentle understanding that has finally come tenderly back to
my own front door, while the sad and lonely truth going
off outside is still shattering into plenty of ancient disintegrating
pieces all around the tragic gardens. Is that enough for
you? When it rains it's true some can see through
a whole kaleidoscope of jumping agonies the porous clouds scattering
birds across our thumping head spaces. I don't need you pulling
them screaming out of my skin just to prove to
me that it can be done. I've got to help
if I can. I've written plenty of paintings on the
subject. The holy host of miracle workers has already been
here well before you took a stab at it. Thinning
angels gave us an emergency number to call, but it
was another fake waterfall behind a smiling curtain. No one
answered. It was an empty room. I've been given a
large number of empty rooms by a large number of
well-meaning angels. It must be harder than it looks. Nothing's
easy, but poor meadows. Surely we can do better. This
isn't all on one person's dream and shoulders. Poets're supposed
to add poetry to the fight, but men and women
must add the weight of their own hopes and courage
to the firmament, even as it catches fire and drowns.
A Fine Life(First Draft)
It's not really too bad. The person
I am was me. We laughed inside
their sacred places at all the monies
well spent. We walked in the gardens
without any shoes on. Not one single
flower seemed to mind. And now it's
a forgotten mess or so I imagine.
I'd rather you think about me
holding hands with you as we passed
through a blue sky next to some
golden trees. We stood among sunbeams and
closed our eyes and dared to dream.
That's enough to always remember. We sang
musics out of our haunted hearts. We
dressed like we were celebrating all beings
in heaven and earth. It took a
little while, that's all, to make it
to the light. It's a fine life.
You're never a regret. If anything
you're the lucky answer to the prayers
I found myself mouthing through my paper
bag. I wasn't always thinking, but looking
for the starlight in your eyes. I
don't want you to worry. I took
as many steps as I could toward
my own happiness with you. This is
just my stop. I'll never forget this
life of a poet, the words will
see to it. That's the point. I
wasn't joking. The sun also rises. I
get it. But it was our time.
We took it and it took us
away. We wanted it to. That's what
we came for. I can't pretend. We
followed a path we had taken to
its end. How many can say that?
My heart is free. Don't let yours
come undone. You'll be all right; I'll
bet there's always a star to guide
you. I'm glad because you were always
so bright nearby. I don't know what
any of that means besides good love.
All rights reserved.
Yeah I don't get that happy go lucky life. It's never been something I've ever understood. My experience has been a heady mixture of fear, hope, and continuing on no matter what. That doesn't mean I don't believe. It only means I haven't found that wisdom yet--it's been a hard road. My life has been a heavy load and it still is. The life of a poet is exactly what you think it would be like. You see and hear things no one else does. This sets you apart--even as they take the offered fruit from your hands and run like hell.