The Rag & Bone Armada Breaks Rank Upon the Barrier Reef like the Torpedo It Really is and Sinks Its Target with a Wink and a...

by Darryl Price


When it's over and done the dangling skeleton walks away in

one direction and the rushing wind pours itself into the other. My

concern is always to be by your side. Most people

probably think even that is giving it way too much of a movie

plot, but here's the thing you rub up against: good

or bad, once a soul becomes aware it can cause


a lot of damage. You can call it a Navajo

blanket or a Japanese umbrella but still it has a name that gets

pronounced in the fiery blasts of creation just like any

other animal face. This is major magic or playful science

or photosynthesis, but it's always a grand scale miracle. We

live in the stuff. That's why you shouldn't be surprised


at all if the walls talk to you or bend

your thoughts into many more pretty rooms than mirrors. It's standard. The

question remains, are you awake? If you're listening, what are

you going to do about it?  That's where you came 

into this space for me. Where poems are planted for future generations.

We're feeding important information through the gaps in time and


space with words for tools, with words for land, with

words for seed. Some of us belong to that kind

of thinking. I said I would look out for you

and I will. What you do with that amount of

eternal care is not really my concern. It belongs to

you. I'm only here to celebrate the fact and move


on or be moved on by a river of circumstance.

Then the dancers become another form and shape to contend

with. They speak in shadows. They speak in light. You

are the ones who must decipher their understanding. Not me.

At any rate, I've become nothing more than pages, curtains,

and old maps. Look at it this way, we're saying hello to the magic once again to start the engine and get you going.

Bonus poem:

That Train Went Off

by Darryl Price



towards better, safer 

times. We were waving oh oh oh 

goodbye, good luck to all 

our many ripening selves, silly and spilling

around the quick little  


rectangular windows flashing by like flashbulbs

like some kind of beatnik  

flowers having their head of petals     

busily brushed flat again by the fussy

rough old winds of immediate changing aging time. Whatever you do--don't fall all the way


outside! Oh do be careful! Oh I  

can hope they can make it back to us alive somehow. Tell me how

can they possibly miss

us so completely and 

still be wanting for us back 


home around the dinner table aroma? If we believe in that kind of luck I suppose

you can pull the whole world 

up to your chin quite far

enough then to finally

see the journey as one


belonging to all woods.

I'm guessing that shouldn't

be so difficult to

understand. It is all

about the water, or


the light in the water.

Write it on your heart's reflecting pool so you'll remember this;

something's always pouring  

into something else by

mistake or by design.