This is Why Your Music Matters

by Darryl Price


Once there was a real honest to God holy spirit that was a gift of kindness unfortunately given to all the wrong people, or the wrong people stole it. Either way the wrong people are still the same ones among us who so willingly use this atomic light to hurt other living beings on a daily basis, to twist them into hideous shapes of death, beneath which their jewel encrusted fingers perform the final blows to their life, and the creepy smoldering designs are put onto their hideous fire and disfigured, their natural beauty

 strapped down with lies, all that's left are twigs of civilization and humanity like heaps of scattered broken bones. They have caused such misery and  bleeding among the people, but more than this they have knifed the sacred covenant between animals and all the free stars, so that no clear understanding about the true nature of things could pass unnoticed into the hearts of men any more, and cause their hearts to grow and open, which is the doorway to any fresh wisdom. On this cruel


path of course they could easily collect all the unguarded money and food for themselves, and steal everybody's lasting beautiful essences for their own privately gated walls and secret dungeons. This caused a growing hole in the brains of artists everywhere—all of whom began to paint only in smeared circles of red, like wounded beasts, caught in a steel leg trap. The weeping

 has become a smoking part of the daily landscape. These so called guardians next met on high and decided who should get to weld their stolen power next to them, for a hefty price of arms and men of course. Only the grandest bidders were welcomed at that table, in the middle of the blackest night. The rich became greedier, if that's even possible, through the sorcery of hateful manipulation of the true facts of love and familial sacrifice, that


this spirit was being abused by those held in highest esteem throughout the ever saddening darkening landscape is a grim though honest truth to bear. This spirit was trapped in a book like dried ink on a dirty page, held prisoner there, granting selfish wishes on a lustful whim, like a genie in a magic lamp, and simply made to do things that brought sorrow and shame to its eternal flame like soul. Then something else,something young and new and great came along. New Kids came along, kids who were not buying into the old worn out stories, kids who preferred to dance in the streets for freedom, who

 were not afraid of the colors of the night, suggestively hugged the moon again and made her blush, kids who whistled a joyful longing into the air, by some beautiful ragged daylight of their own invention. This alone woke up enough thought to raise dead tree spirits and to move forgotten mountains to roar with life again. The first thing they did was to free the holy spirit from its rotten cage and laugh with him and cry with him again into the forgotten hills with many joyful echoes seeping into many hungry ears. Love is worth it, they said. Love is all, the Holy One agreed.

Bonus poems:


Totem Poles (Click Here To View)(a first draft)

by Darryl Price

There's nothing so low then that you wouldn't have tried already to rip it open and spoil it in your dumbed-down sadness, all to

end the world for not noticing you in its castdown eyes a lot sooner, but the vain world fought

back from that kind of silly-assed melting candle wax war, like extinction on its own

brutalizing enough terms. It wasn't size that

matters but substance. Still if I

have indeed loved you in my own small 

way and that means given you as

much of this life as I possibly could then please


accept once more this truly meant for you alone sweet kiss of air coming your lost way right now...wish

only that the secret places had made more

valuable time together available 

out of the tiresome facts of life to us. All it did instead

was leave me far behind, at the sad end of my own 

lost curb, in a place that never

looked quite the same again. Sometimes it feels like the

same thing but it's not. The lamplighter has no purpose anymore 


even to the headbutting moths of painful circumstance.

Those lopsided sidewalks have no maternal

purpose either anymore,  even to

the ticking time-bomb shoes of constant sorrow, the ghost garden parades, the abandoned bikes, the sideways

rolling acrobatic leaves,

the frying drops of spattering rain, the dripping off the earth's arms moon maidens,

the smelly stacked up stars, the freezing of the lights smack in the middle of everything,

the opening breezes like doors, colder from the cracked  


car windows, dogs who sniff every mailbox

for fresh news that travels in and

out of other dogs . And now I myself 

am to find out if I've got yet another

strangely filled pocket crammed full of more words that

somehow meanings, less and less, they start

to disappear even before

they fall from my broken away hands and fingers. Once I


would have simply fed them to the sparrows, if there

was no one else around watching me,

or given them saintly unto

the sleeping grasses, like a quick shot of

Kentucky bourbon, or a broken

string of love beads, or a no longer

maybe so perfect scratched cat's eye marble with a chip in its otherwise perfectly round face, or a

missing wooden eye, then or even a miniature plastic model of an alien 


spaceship tripod, or a mysterious souvenir scroll painted on a bark

canoe-- the cheapest kind you can get--

and later wonder why you'd

buy such an unremarkable ugly thing to put on your desk blotter in the first place.

When I was a kid I was fascinated

with totem poles. I

collected dozens of them like

other kids collected WWII airplanes, or  tiny plastic molded colorful gumball 


trains that flew anywhere on tracks only found in the minds of childhood countries. They gave me a false sense of rainbow comfort. I now know that  

is something I usually

found rather frightening on

a daily basis, but all that's

so far from the pages you're reading,

we'll soon be on different books

altogether if I go any further. I never wanted

to see you crumble. That's the decoded truth.Goodbye.

bonus poem:

Nothing Will Be Left

by Darryl Price



This isn't a where for you to what down upon with your heavy handed hurtful stares again and again. No. Well

some would say counting down the

softly rising rows of constantly 

crumbling ancient guardian

mountains in the emptying rooms of shadowy  


mists is still being some reason enough to go on that long trip anyway , but in the end they really 

couldn't add up to such loveliness as holding hands, to

simply being alone

with you. That's all

there is to say. Someone else

might find this lost passageway


and coax the tossing

sun from behind

its own glowing head

of darkly flowing

hair for you. When you look into

that dreaming face


there is every promise

and every hurtful

ash to come.  How long will

you always forgive

that unfair comparison its deep and lingering bite on the inside of your mouth?

That's the problem,


isn't it? We're

all up against the impossible

possible. Yet

I stumble over

these buried words myself like

any child would. I add my


still tiding voice to

the farawayclimb that's only

partly there and is

only going to

presently sound out

completely in the


new order of things, those

made specifically from light (that you'll

hardly remember).

All this would be fine

if I thought you'd specifically be

given your heaven.