The Process of Understanding (Strawberry Bees)

by Darryl Price


Are all my words lonely, or nearly departed; decapitated;

Visible only from the ankles down, nonchalant? I

Get bored. All my words are not paying

Strict attention to the television. I get dysfunctional.


My words, coincidental though they may seem, are

Like any ordinary, nasty scar—sad-looking, sensitive, and

Deep, but who cares, right? It's all blah,

Blah, blah. Useless information. All my words are


Perfect examples of thinking of you and not

Complying with the rules of engagement at all.

Bad, bad, bad poet. All my words are

Being constantly torn from the cuff, broken into,


Rinsing themselves off, full of hungry parts, and strewn out across a

Heart-shaped field, like the stars that silently surround

Us. All my words are another living creature

Altogether. And, yes, all my words disappear under


The water that is your person like so

Many bonny swans looking for tasty floating treats in

The swirling expressions of your dancing falls. Insert

Any word you'd like. It all applies. All


My words are like a small cake. I'm

Not like everybody else-- in this regard, but

I'm not sure any of it matters. All my apples,

My words, repeat the same mistakes. Wouldn't mind


Helping me out here, would you? All my

Words have run off into the sunset with a strange crowd.  All

My words cough impolitely. My words create

A vacuum. All my words, in between breaths,


Are too complicated to explain themselves to the

Jury at this time. All my words spin around like satellites.

All my words are mortal. All my words

Are crammed onto these fingertips, swarming like ants.

Bonus poems:


by Darryl Price

Radio check. 10 minutes has gone by 
and I'm still lost. Don't people always look 
a little bit more completely alive, 
present and accounted for, when they are 
seen smiling? Just an observation. I 

sometimes make them when I'm looking for a 
heart somewhere in my own head, like now. And 
here we go again into another 
broken down cemetary town. You can't 
think about the big questions for too long. 

You'll go bonkers, like a ghost in the rain. 
You know the one. Flapping about in his 
doghair overcoat, like a rolling bush 
without any leaves or legs to stand on. 
Radio check. Radio check. What the
devil are you people listening to? 
I thought we were supposed to keep in touch. 
Doesn't have to be so much pain in the 
world you know. What's it going to cost you 
anyway, stranger? I don't drink it no 

more, if you really must know. Had ourselves 
a pretty good looking book back in those 
windswept anxious days of cigarettes for 
lunch and not just a few chapters of a 
chronic hell or two to go. Hey, stuff just

seems to happen. What was that you said to 
me: I got married, you got married. Man, 
that's a final blow to the burning moon 
question of all this useless sorrow that 
leaves me battered and naked, my burglar 

alarm blubbering with wires in the wet
ditch. Maybe I know. Maybe I'm blind to 
your particular kind of cobweb shade. 
I've been to crooked sleep before, but now 
I'm scratching my foot over the dream's edge.  

Bonus poem:

Only You Can See Me

by Darryl Price

Words sent to you are nothing more than sticks
found on the ground. They don't spell out any
thing in particular or point  in the
right or wrong direction. I don't know how
to talk to you. You must think me mad. There's

a wind in my face, licking me like a 
friendly dog, whenever you're around. But
that's just the half of it. The other half 
is like being bowled over constantly 
by unseen things in the sunlight. It makes

you catch your breath and sigh like a painter
unaware of anything else but the 
busy wet canvas of all life. How did
this happen? I have been silent towards you.
I have gathered all my favorite things

around me. They now all have holes in them
as if they are past proclaiming something
to be dear and have become lonesome and
unfamiliar. I am left without
a home in my heart. I don't know where I

am. Except in the middle of all these 
words trying desperately to get out
and make a run for it. There is nowhere 
to go except where you are--a place I
don't belong. That leaves me without a moon

to stand on. The stars hang and ripen but 
they do not invite me to stay the night
anymore. They know I am ladderless 
without you. Words don't seem to be able
to reach your ear with a kiss. I'll send them

anyway. Maybe there is a joy in 
just making an authentic noise unto
the void. I will not tell you a lie. You
have made me whole again in a way that
cannot be forsaken or tossed aside.