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The Most Beautiful Truth


by Darryl Price


I still believe in the very slim chance
I'll say something lucky
enough to reach your truest insides, your
spirit, that you will hear
and understand as
care on my part, even
if you can never quite
identify me as
its sender, that warm wind's
exact direction, that
particular sun's position
in the mind's sky,

that pinprick of that obvious
of a star, the 
color of that flower's
burst of smell, the meaning
of happy enough to
smile without needing to know exactly why.
If only there were words
clever enough to fly
all that over to you--
zooming in like a kite coming
in for a big slice
of freshly blue dyed sky. I'm the simple

string disappearing in mid air,I'm
the knotted fraying tail,snapping and glistening in the sun,
I'm the triangle of
fragile diving paper swooshing
above your wonderful
head at least in all my best dreams so far, but I
want to be the hero who
hands it over to you, watches
your lips moving in thanks, who shares
that special movement within
your smile with no other space
to want to be falling into, all things in

their places starting to go
around only two persons 
like banded magnetized
rings of pure delight, but I know the actual
hour for me is getting pretty late.
I'm older than you'll ever willingly stretch
yourself into now
and younger than the one
you're becoming. That's the
crack in our mirror, which means
there can never be
a clear enough picture for the both of us to inhabit together. 

Oh you know it alright when you've got
your hand on the hand that
shoves the knife in. I've only
ever wanted mine
to say I am home in
your fact. I close my eyes
and see your face looking
into mine. That's a light
for me that drives away
every darkness there is.Even
on this blank page I'll seek
that most beautiful truth every single time I'm up to the minute at bat and ball. 






Bonus poems:



If the World's Still Turning Around

then I must've already
been dropped off somewhere in a certain space and time
but I've no idea
which way is home from here. A field
is its own person. Even
I can see that.You
bring out the many wild horses
in me. Not sure if
that's considered a good sign or a bad thing. Don't think so.Either way.
Don't really care. It could be a
kind of gross joke I guess.
I wouldn't be so crass.

One that I'll spend the rest
of my life trying to
get at its sad meaning for me. Do wonder who
else might be viewing this side
of this particular;y shaded off to one side moon and also who feels lost
like a piece of drifting
star drowning in a greenish brown bath
tub. Probably the dream's own
air will become a most
cherished memory,too.
As you have witnessed I'm
not so very good with all these words floating around in here

that are supposed to somehow matter.As foolish
as that sounds I've been trying my best
to tell you something true about my real feelings,
something very deep having to do
with my being here and obviously aware
of your presence. Nothing
masks the fact you're a
good starting point to everything
I am hoping for.
If I dream, you are the
substance of that thoughtful glow, the image within
the image, the cloud

behind all the clouds, light that lights all other
light. I don't know if you
are listening,if I
am talking. If the world's
still turning I am lost
without you by default.



Fun and All

It's true even if in that one moment of doubt there's

A  freedom loving butterfly flying

Its own spiraling kite of dancer's legs fireworks

Like shadow footprints across a flower field

Map and the next only a dull bird

Sitting on a sun wrecked drain pipe alone. Oh

It's true as you turn your back on the whole messy

Crowd of us. And it's true while you practice hitting

A pimpled ball into a tiny cupped hole

 

Better than anyone else in the office. It's true

Even if I suddenly become only

The dust of your once poet pal, Darryl

Price. It's true when they spike your news with

Reel poisons between the sound bites. It's

True even as they pronounce that rock

Is finished and dead. It's not. Art survives in us and with us all the time there is.

Our daily lives are full of the meaning of rock. Someone starts tapping the sad  frozen floor tiles with

Their wrecked shoes. Someone else makes a funny looking face out of a bunch of

 

Old newspaper clippings and lost in drawers feathers and spit right on the spot.

Someone then invents a new species of jumbled animal

Out of a handful of office supplies

And it all works beautifully. It makes perfect sense too.Life can

Be a moment of silliness too. And the silly can make the

Pain subside to the background a little or a lot. Or maybe someone decides to

Break the stupidest rules and gives a big old hug where a big old

Hug has been long overdue, and needed the most. Well.Knock me down you  bunch of beautiful kangaroos.

It's true even as the poem ever fails to light.

 







Today I Met My heart

but she would not recognize
me as herself. She felt stirred internally but
not enough to acknowledge

the source as being a direct line
from my breath linked through to hers;
it was nowhere near lust,

closer to a foregone acceptance,
some kind of absolute
home without any consent required, deep and profound connection
without ritual, no

trial; it just didn't fit
their molds and that left us
angry at the world; surprised us both all night long into tomorrow.




Weather Report

When guys wear
red ties they
look like walking thermometers.



Places Are Being Spoken Of

 

In exploding, spitting leaves this time of year. Another

Language that like every other tongue argues for 

More existence please with lots of everything

In small regular doses--sun and wind and

Rain and room to throw one's full arms

Around each new blossoming day, but a deliberate

 

Emerald will green from within. Greed gets

You acquisitioned next to the wall. Someone

Is bound to have a pair of cruel enough 

Scissors in their back pocket sooner or later with your name

On it.  Is this what's happened to

Me then? I exploded over the alotted time with

 

A beard twined with dozens of wild blue flowers and

Swept the local moths into a volcanic

Disappearance of dust-like proportions which choked apart

Any chance of making new friends with

The surrounding scenery? Too bad. I couldn't

Help filling my legs up with all

 

That freshly boiled pleasure and carrying it back

To the hive of my purest dreams

For later offering to the Muse herself,

An organic moisturizer she might easily dab

On between gigs as a silvery pulsating

Star or the mature breasts of the

 

Moon goddess. Let us celebrate moments like

These that conquer us so elegantly. Why

Let the circles close in all around  

Us when we are made of the same
Stuff that keeps strumming in the
Eternal one's palmed ear canals as she dreams of sleep anyhow?

 

Darryl Price

05/30/11

 

 

 



 

 

 
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