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This Is The Place


by Darryl Price




                  I want you
to remember me. This the place
where I'll always be, if you're looking.
This is the place I've let
go expectations, no regrets, and no
mask. This the place my heart
floats about like a living sailboat.

This is the space I sought best
to envision. This is the place
savored to the full in my deepest
lines. This is the place where
I went in, with or without
you. This is the place that
might as well be a secret

garden. I can't ever imagine you as
being a stranger here since it
was built with your presence in mind.
This is the place I made
peace with all other beings. I
wished them their own happiness. This
place my cell wall has to 

push itself through. This the place where
art unleashes original singing like a 
telekinesis machine. This is the place I
smiled back at you from. This
is the spot I placed my
hand on the cave wall and
called across time to ask for

your feelings. This the place I finally
danced, the place I think aloud.
This the crack where I survive the
end of the world. This is
the place they can never understand
is all around us. This the
place they are standing on. This

is the space not for sale. This
is the "X"  only discovered by
those who bring their own individual maps
with them. This is a place
only a lover would know. This
is the dreaming place. I told
you about meeting there years ago.

This is the place that must do
the talking for us. Keys are
where you'll find them. This is the
place, always part of things, the
most natural way to fling open
doors between now. This is the
place I planted your wild flowers.





Bonus poem:



The sky became its own monster


for some of us. Some of us died. 

We had our blue on the blessed 

days when nothing happened, but you 


know otherwise their predictions 

came all too true. The war waged on.

One by one we were captured by 

the bitter, dull indifference 


of certain insulated folks 

and shoveled off to the side of 

the road. It didn't surprise us, 

it just saddened us to our bones. 


We left the farms and turned on the 

sickening TV. We drank the 

latest gasoline and choked on 

the way to the emergency 


room. The line was as long as it 

ever was. No Jesus could have 

done it justice.And now our kids 

aren't sure what to make of the books 


and movies and art and noise that 

our drowning bonfire makes. They don't 

understand the mean destruction 

any more than we did. They'll start 


the whole process over again, 

waiting for their own children to 

choose another planet to live 

on together. We'll wash to sea.

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