PDF

The Seabirds and Waves, the Paper and the Ink


by Darryl Price


The last human poet got up slowly

and walked over to his window. It 
looked to be a sunny morning 
through the blinds. Blue bellied sky, 
parading its fat ass around 
everywhere. Across the street, pink 

and white blossoms, left to play on 
their own, with their little, bright, 
damn the torpedoes faces pressed 
open into everything breathing air, 
in every possible direction, yet 
starting to droop, but keeping close to

 the houses anyway, familiar in that 
stance as scruffy pet cats. The trees in 
front were apparently hanging on to 
something he still couldn't see to 
believe, but he could feel its presence 

in the sap and branches. Nonetheless. A 
change of heart. An irreversible engine 
starting to grind its gnawing teeth 
against the newness of this, another 
particular day. No laughter, he said to 
himself. No screams of pure delight

 to startle the hidden birds into flight 
from their crowded bushes. No bees 
bouncing and buzzing about the eaves, 
the drains. No butterflies, not even 
cabbage moths, blowing like tiny white 

paper bags across the empty road. 
Mostly sunny, but without anything 
moving at any real visible pace. Where 
are the warrior wind dancers when 
you need them? Aren't they supposed 
to be on call for times like these? It's

 not like we need more rain, he said to 
no one, but we could maybe use a 
rumble or two of some sort, a simple 
stirring up of the rising winds, just to 
get things started conversing amongst 

themselves. A big bell ringing out of 
nowhere kind of thing happening. The 
last human poet sat himself down at his 
wooden desk and looked around in 
silence at his own familiar, fading shirt 
of a room. There's good old Van

 Gogh. Hey, Vincent, nice to see you. 
Some battling blues, still hanging on to 
the open lapel of his jacket like long-
lost fingerprints. The ginger red of his 
artistically clipped beard. Self-portrait 

with straw hat. Ben Watt & Tracey 
Thorn at the Moth Club. Oct. 25, 26, 27. 
Tickets on sale. Just two posters from 
the past now. John Lennon with his 
eyes closed in a black and white close 
up. Listen to this button. Listen to

 this dream. Listen to this postcard. #9 
Dream b/w What You Got. Is it The Pink 
Floyd or just Pink Floyd, he wondered 
to the cornered wall? He used to start 
anywhere, because he knew that that 

was where the beginning was, with a 
great amount of feeling the gusto! It 
would take him there, where he 
wanted to go, eventually. Bit of a 
magical notion that, about doors and 
windows appearing out of

 nowhere that would willingly lead one 
to somewhere else. But, in truth, he 
wished now he was sitting beside an 
ocean, alone, in a chair near the 
eternally mysterious shoreline, 

listening for nothing but seabirds and 
waves again. The poetry there was 
natural. It didn't have to be dug up or 
walked over, like bridges. The last 
human poet got up to pee. Why didn't 
his body tell him to do this before he sat

 down? He missed typewriters. He 
really liked their sound. And fussing 
with the paper. The ink. The whole 
mess. The zing. Boring, he thought to 
himself. Just too fucking boring for 

words. The last human poet wrote in 
his secret diary that he must not 
romanticize typewriters ever again or 
lose all self respect. Things looked 
pretty grim in that respect. The last 
human poet laughed. It felt pretty good

 actually. He used to love to smoke also. 
Writing poetry was like smoking a 
cigarette. It probably wasn't good for 
you, but it sure as hell beats vitamins 
and water. Kale can go to hell! The last 

human poet put on his baseball cap 
and adjusted the bill. Let's go outside, 
he said. Maybe we'll find some poetry 
someone dropped on the sidewalk. 
Score, he shouted. There's always 
something falling from

 the skies anyway, according to the
 evening news. Maybe the trees will 
have caught something we can use. 
Maybe we'll see a piece of something 
sparkling in the grass and find out it's 

the one word we've been searching for 
all along. Writing poems is a very 
tricky business, you know. You need all 
the goosed incentive you can get-- just 
to get started. The last human poet 
smiled. You never know. Just never know.        
Endcap