by Darryl Price
by Darryl Price
You are going to make another war. I am going
to make a fine paper boat. You are going to
plant a grim bomb or two. I'm going to plant
a Bodhi tree and look for the artful moon in
my room. You always seem to be chanting about the
courage it takes to die. I sing about just feeling
kind of sad you've heard no other whispers about love.
You are going to count your money all alone. I
am going to not bother with counting the stars. You
are going to run over something that wept real tears.
I am going to lift my eyes. I am going
to lay my hands on the wounds. You are going
to smoke something truly foul and push the lies through
pointy teeth, which are really chimneys, which are really buildings,
which are really dirty windows. I am going to forget
to always be first. You are going to pretend you
can't find your heart. I am going to walk with
the ones who need a friendly cane to get along
and belong. You are going to look away behind a
steaming plate full of signature fries. I am going to
let someone else laugh in the perfect places. You are
not going to bend backwards to be made better. I'm
placing this poem here for you. I'm on your radio.
I'm not waiting to hear the truth. You're the clue.
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I'm always surprised when people can't see the pain and torture an artist must go through to get at the essence of a beautiful life. It's like a constant current of electricity that you must either control or be utterly consumed by, either way you can't go back. There is no going back.