by Darryl Price
sprang straight up to their full galloping heights roaming over your hills like constantly shifting eyes, your
strange approximated illuminating
hair like ghosts giving birth to a tender smell
of sea foam. This was all I saw, but it was
quite enough to imprint its smell upon me with your brilliant
and eternal hymnal in hand. No voice cried out louder
within my own sacrifice at the great sad
invisible risk involved, no breath penetrated
its fragrant tendrils to my deeper soul. And for this I am
to be forever pulverized like a sand
castle on the stone dead kingdoms of a once
sweetly abandoned rain moon's pocked face. You're not waiting
around. How is this not poetry? There is
not a green drop of dream left to be had, of brutal fever,
of unprocessed wind, of paper sheaf you are
not the secret central ash made flag of in
my staunch piratical mind. You shape rain into
an apple. Thunder is your drum drip from the
honey vat of all my letters, my pungent paints. How
is this not a beat for me to bang heavily upon? How am
I not supposed to chant you are of lights made?
The songs of colors elevates your beauty
like the head of a diamond cathedral
shining in all directions and nothing else
plunders me more silently while unfolding
my secret smile. So I go on, across the struck down
universe, an ancient house with a handful
of stars ticking like a reprimanding clock.
Thoughts Before Jumping Out of a Window
by Darryl Price
The vile departed head barker sends around once more to
capture the smudged meadow infested trees, but of course they move in different
smuggled time circles than us and are able to look directly
at you without breaking into many blue pieces of their own smashed lovemaking. That is their
porcelain strength and their elegant purpose in this reimagined life—to continue
their mad cap mushroom adventure around the whole wide world, observing
and recording all the poor bastard seasons of everything to come.
That's why it's sad to poets like me that so
many truly ugly machines have been made to massacre
them and us. We built our paper houses out of their fantasia
slices because we know deep down they will likely stand
the test of time until the end of all days. That's probably when
they'll finally open up their many sad eyes anyway, instead of
seeing everything through a prayer of roots and branches,
and try to forget this ever happened to them, like this, until then they'll
likely have memorized all the names for all the animals
who harmed them even a little. It can so be helped.
That's why to see them as they truly are you must only believe in yourself at long, long last.
Again. Feel the water animal. It is a familiar
form that came from the stars, too.
Inside its body there are a million
ways to smile pretty and die. The storms at
sea are a conflict between the explosions
of light and a sudden urge to
walk upright. Even the tiniest shell that
makes up sand wants to be found
out by something still dreaming of sky. I wish there
was a simpler way to tell you
something surprising in complete and utter silences, but it
wouldn't matter. The only thing you can
feel is the song you are singing
as it makes its way out of
your inner most chambers to dissolve like chalk in your rain. You
dazzle me all by yourself. These few
words are only fingers walking along your worn away
edges, seeking some truth that is hidden
inside the grooves like a running off the plate grilled to please sunrise.
It happens and it never happens again
and it never stops happening to me.
Here is a sword never laid to lamb
before. Here is a tree top
on a fast slab of harvested moons. It must
all be eaten up immediately.
Here is a wild wind containing
your hands holding mine and
in its same breath. It will always
carry our flag down the
stairs with absolute love. Here's a sound that
no one else is capable of making.
It's spinning out of control
just for you. I can't help it
if it only wants to see
you shout at something. I've said it should belong
to everyone in order
to truly be set free, but
it will not vibrate between
any mountains of cloud without
your pretty shimmering
presence currently on board. That's the way these things
work. Here is a whole minute's
worth of silver bells ringing just because
you slipped on a certain
pair of old shoes this very fine Tuesday
morning. Type that out. They'll get it
if they want to. You can't make
art for anyone but the
ones who'll never truly know why.
All rights reserved.
I wanted this to be like words racing against themselves like fireworks, but with a softer punch to the side. I'm always trying to make the perfect gift of words. This came close, but I'm a clumsy fool at best. I hand the thing over and it's already bent out of shape by its short passage in my wringing hands. I'd say I'm sorry, but the poem already contains those sentiments. The hope is that you'll look closely enough to see the purity of the doing and let your smile open the door without the need for one more hard to answer answer spilling out all over the dusty floor in tiresome complaint.