The road is a blind beggar

by Darryl Price



alright but not so much of a friendly

    little cigar-chomping companion

ghost. That sweeping hair of longed for sleeping only

    awaits you once you've drowned too


many missed punches already into

    the feckless chin of fate. That

hanging lucky number seven is never

    anything but true. You don't


have to worry too much about that

    kind of thundering blues hitting

you where you sit at. They'll find

    you out. Just embrace the news 


you are alive somehow however

    it arrives. From that

lonesome train window gaze out

    on the sea of possibilities


and don't let them tell

    you there's nothing on the other

side of the end of the

    world. No matter where you are


tonight you are someone who

    might just fall happily in love. There's stopped time in every minute.

Just know this one thing—even

    if you win you'll still lose something big


as you stumble upon

    your luck like a bundle of tied together magic

sticks. The cold message is all

    the rage these days. Everything changes.


No love is really safe. This camping

    out in your wildest dreams in ditches

is a kind of melting on false

    stairs, of long lost memories,


of wheels matching up to make sure

    something runs straight on ahead into a wall. The endless fire

is just the familiar cost

    of the roll of angel heads.


Again this is all worth it,

    I think, just can't be stopped or

reversed. Hardly anyone anywhere

    gets to say goodbye. That's what


always sets my words apart

    from the chain—I want that

late chance, even carved out of

    pure nothingness but a true physical


sensation in the cold night,

    sitting in a beat up room

of my own making, waiting

    for the next sunrise to make


me admit to myself that

    no one is coming, everyone

has left.  This terrible racket

    is all I'm left with.



Darryl Price    Saturday, August 10, 2013







Bonus poem:


They Don't Know

by Darryl Price


what they are mooning about. They want to scare you with

their caked on close up sinister carved smiles. They are pretty scared of you alright.

They are so afraid you might not love them anymore.

They remember love happening to them and now they

are so cranky for the fact, waking up from that mind-numbing dream. They

remember turning away love for spite. They want to say they

are sorry we were hurt by their prickliness back then. They are

not very good with words. They have used words as weapons

to misinform and disarrange you all your life. They have brought this last

supper on themselves they will say through their many fallen tears,

but that is a lonely penance and not good for much

else. They were learning children once just like you and me.

They still do know you deserve to give all you've got to the

waiting world in your own way. They want to take your place,

remember this, only if they are evil. They should

immediately allow you to rightly take the

world over without a world war of the hearts being started again. They can't

understand or accept the time is now. They live in

their balanced haircuts like frozen cups of coffee offered to

an ice queen on holiday. They live in front of their

stolen money TVs like endlessly hungry gulls

circling an open air garden restaurant all day long. They are

constantly pretending not to notice the holes in

their shoes are letting in cooler and colder air. They

really don't know what they are so mad for in the first

place. They are sad and anxious. They still deserve your respect.

They have dignity in them. They're soon to be gone. They'll

become whatever we resurrect in their places.