This is What's Wrong with the World
by Darryl Price
Everything's inflatable. Here we go. It's all plastic. Give it a rest, kid.
You could say that I just want to enjoy nothing for now. But. Let's go ahead and buy into its precisely sealed with a rubber stamped kiss kind of survival rate statistic for now.
It's weird. Confusing. We are
alive. We can die. Can quickly be
beaten to a pulp. Even
as a kid I could feel the
siren's spinning blades whirling on my insides late at night. But that's just
them. The them part of all that is not us. That's
their whole waiting for it to begin again game of gathering chances and building more giant monuments to lies everywhere. Now is
our actual turn on the board. We back the best lights
with our little bits of love. Doesn't matter
who he is, or where she is coming from. Do it. Don't be afraid to try and outrun their self-imposed fears as rules for living.
Sometimes I can't believe I live like this either. No still alive kid in the adult worlds ever can. Not for very long, not in the anyways, Mister Master. Look.
There are better dreams out there, something more real and meaningful than stupid stacks of paid for false
knowledge prizes to collect and hoard like antique baseball cards. Greed of any kind
is only the fangs pumping
you full of poison. Why must
you define rather than be?
I'm just one poet. I fear
the experience of now is getting far and
away ahead of us. Where do
we go when the one and only lovable moon girl of our dreams has
been sadly imprisoned in a glass jar-shaped house as well? Soon they'll erect
their own glowing orb like some
milk-white plastic flowers thrown into
a white wicker wastebasket. We'll be the
ones asked to sweep up the crunchy, sticky
mess of tickets and soft drinks. You won't do it, someone
else will have to or else die trying. Children will be told
to, ah ah ah, squeeze dry their dreams into a uniform
paper cup before they leave
their childhoods for good, hand them over to the playground cops
before recess is over. Unless we
act now, with some kindness as well as some small core of shared wisdom, they'll
likely call that treason, push
us into the rushing river like loose trash. Replace
your old fingertips with newly minted
prettier product. Raise the ridiculous
price. Limit access. Give your free
tickets away to someone else entirely foreign to your heart of hearts. But gently
let me remind you that you
are a ticket of your own
sweet karma, karma, karma.
This is not at all entertaining
us, they'll say, with a fleshy company pout through their shit smeared snouts of corporate glee. This old fish is fooling
you. He's very happy after all. Just look at his smiling face. His screams are
only begging for more hooks, you'll see.
Yeah I thought so. If it's not
you it's not going to be anybody, not this time around the crumbling blocks of endless modern civilization.
Bonus:
Morning
has at last found us. Love was lost, lost and not found, and not ever going to be found again, but finally
corroded, bent as a faked diamond ring in the dew wet grass, but now morning's found us again and it's beginning to look like the rain may win out after all.
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Author's Note
Everything can be copied,multiplied and shipped. Can be brought to many exact false notions, wrong conclusions. This is nothing new to the world, it's just easier in these modern times. What does it mean to be original and why even bother? Hasn't the moon been looked at enough,described enough times? No. Not nearly enough.Never. Sometimes I like to just come right out and say a thing. I know this bothers some people, because they are more than comfortable enough with the familiar couch program at hand. So am I, so are we all. But that's the point. Friends say, Oh, Darryl,say it more mysteriously,use an ancient mask,give us a thrill show,we want to be seriously thrilled. Give us the good old inflatable Darryl that we can tie to a string and let go of at the end of the metaphorical day. It's ever so much more fun than dreary. Give us another sunflower. My dears I could give you a book of sunflowers,and I will, and I have,but that's not all that's glowing in the sunlight off the garden's porch rail today. See for yourselves.
Enjoyed both pieces Darryl, and I liked too the short second poem's trick of the eye in that, upon reading it, I kept reading "mourning's" and then "morning's" because it entertained me how much difference it makes visually while sonically I'd have heard it wrong without images of morning to shore me to the right. :) Good afternoon, my friend. Nice to read you today. Xo
Enjoyed reading "This Is What's Wrong..." DP. The leap, stanza to stanza, is very effective.
"But gently
let me remind you that you
are a ticket of your own
true karma, karma, karma.
This is not entertaining
us, they'll say."
Nice work.
"But gently / let me remind you that you / are a ticket of your own"
Your poems always deliver the goods, Darryl!
Heather,always a pleasure. Same.thank you so much. I changed true to sweet,but you picked out just the right angle of the mechanism at work here. Bill, I'm always honored at what you see,and then the very welcomed generosity merrily attached to the observation. Much appreciated all.
Sam is not same, Sam is Sam, and a finer gentleman cannot be found. That having been said,sorry for the spelling mistake. I was told not to worry about spelling by one of my writing teachers, and being more or less a lazy kind of boy, I took it to heart.