This Pretty Business

by Darryl Price



Oh it's another one of those strange thrill rides

slowly building from a  buzz saw whisper

into cool morning's consciousness, coming

on and crawling through the moon's mattress like

a silver stream and under the dented

pillow where there's a punked out bedbug feeling,

caressing the loosened brain's slumbering 

tummy with an electric feather or

felt pen writing down a half remembered

dream. I notice the window fling itself

up into the sun's sorry face as if

to say, ‘Well, what the hell do you want from

me now?” I smile but I don't think I mean

it, not like that. I'm always surprised to find

myself in the shower again, aren't you?

How did I get myself in there without

tripping over my own helpless feet? At

least I made it this far. And what's the point

of looking out the window through those two

sly fingers? There's nothing out there that you

haven't seen before until you leave the

house that is. You'll have daily adventures

aplenty or more black crow boredom than

you can handle like balled up and squashed trash heaps

spilling out of the tops of an army

of fat green trashcans on every single street. I

think maybe that's the biggest problem we've 

got going for us—we go about just

doing all these kinds of so called normal

human things without ever expecting

the floor to cave in beneath us, and when

it does we fall without hesitation.

Thanks for the hole to bury myself in.

Goodbye cruel world. No thanks. That's all I've got

to say. I might not know exactly what

it is I'm looking for but I'm against

not finding it, if that makes any truth as sense

to you. And if it doesn't let's just say

I disagree with your definition

of being alive. I'm up. I think it's

okay what they say—if you can't find the right

door then get busy inventing a new

one for yourself and your loved ones and don't

be afraid to use it to find one real

feeling at home again. In a weary world, we've 

got to give up this notion that it's all

somebody else's pretty business

to be happy or sad or a fool or

here or gone to other fascinating

stratospheres of music making.  You are

the star here, and that's it. You can travel

the sky but you can't move out of your own

way. You walk around but you're still hanging

around. You must belong.  The way I see

it what you are is your own time machine,

your own lighthouse. You go in your head and

you come out your heart and then jump back inside,

do it again, until you arrive at

your final destination. Look how much

things have changed while you and I weren't looking so hard 

at the pointed purple pain. And what did

you expect?  Tears don't really make sorrows

disappear but they can work their special

brand of magic in other ways profound;

if they're the real thing they'll mix well with the rain,

we all know happily where that leads us 

to eventually. Not so bloody

obvious are the changes happening 

on your brand new day's head. In the meantime

why not go dance together in the park?

I mean it. Give it a rest. Fear not, the

world's not going to collapse forever.