PDF

They Are Lying


by Darryl Price


 

 

like the icecold yellow wolves they are when they say they believe in love. What they're really

doing is trying to game the outcome in their

hungry for your living blood(y) favors. This shouldn't really surprise you at all.

They've often shown you their biggest fangs before. That wasn't

 

a fluke. The jungle never disappears, it just

advances on you slowly, becomes the corner

where you live. You should go ahead and accept that

terrible fact. It won't hurt you. And as for love,

 

it can grow just about anywhere, but that doesn't make it

any stronger. It's a color, not a piece of

fallen concrete, it can change underneath a quick

momentary sky in the blink of an eye, which

 

is about all the time you've got left anyway.

Don't let it ruin your day. Eat what you've got left and be glad

that you've somehow tasted the same nectar as the flying gods, after all

there is no end to the thirst for more sweetness. That's why there's

 

never enough money for Scrooge to hoard and never will be. Never enough

sex to go around the Mulberry bush. There's never going to be enough new music

in your floating through the endless clouds cloud bank to store. There's never enough soulful kisses

to follow you into the next century. Even if she

 

stayed on top of your heart for a year and a day it wouldn't

matter, not in the end. You'd still be wondering where in the world the 

silver magic got off to. Poets bring a lot of their own flying

children into this world but they don't always take such 

 

good care of them, because they're all in line like

the else, scared by the exciting finish of the

last ride, a word or two about thrills and chills, the

sad noticings and knowing winks of the constantly nodding off cosmos we're sewn to like hidden dolls inside a heart shaped basket.




Bonus poem:



Someday


by Darryl Price



 

It's not near the end. It never is. This

moment is just what we know now. They are

always running a monstrous war against

the very stars. How far do you think they

can take that evil prejudice? The stars

have never lost a battle. Someday they

 

just might. Someday we might remember what

it is that we liked so much about each

other. Someday we won't be living our

fresh new story with all the beautiful

possibilities at our disposal.

I've never been a big fan of equal lies.

 

They may get you something you don't really

deserve, but like little devils they may

also eat a part of your soul, which could

be lost forever. I could go on. Like

someday we'll have to get rid of you know

everything. It won't matter anymore.

 

Someday our true and false words will be dried

on the page. All the poets will have gone

home to their tomorrow beds. I get a

weird prickling in my head when I think of

living life fearing life. I reject the

culture of a Fascist Christ. How dare you?

 

A weird prickling for the poor Japanese-

American citizens rounded up

into concentration camps, for profiled

African-American citizens

shot with their empty hands flung in the air, 

female-American citizens told

 

by old white men in gated suits their peer

health care counseling is a crime, gentle,

misunderstood lovely children whose tough

gender identity issues make them

a target for dumb bullies, immigrant

families torn apart by war behind

 

them and official cruelty in front. I

suppose I could go on. Well then, let me

condemn the actual paranoia of

hate. In machinegun hands. Your mad campaign

to outlaw compassion, misrepresent

kindness. Your mad threat to kill us all. Your

 

equally mad campaign to deny all

further understanding, misrepresent

hope. Your mad campaign to outlaw peace on

earth, misrepresent masculinity,

dreamers, anything you disagree with.

Your literal love of death over an

 

organic, flexible way. Your love of

death over humanity. Your love of

death over poetry. Your love of death

over joy. I reject your offer. I

stand by all good men and women as much

as I can, long as luck and grace allow.        


 

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