Those Beckoning Lights

by Darryl Price

The understanding we made was neatly wrapped up in its own 

blue tissue cocoon like a neatly rolled point and dumped

unceremoniously into the forgotten past like a plate of leftover

digital lies. The lid was shut. Time passes tightly. And you

find yourself a prisoner inside your newly broken body, walking

along inside a lonely road's ditches like a lost animal again and again. There are the same soft houses.

There are those beckoning lights you remember calling you home. But you have only the

billion stars and they burn off by day and you

walk in the shadow of the sun to cool off. You glint. You

blink. You flash. It's a field of eternal longing sacattered before you. Why


do you have to know so much about always being always left

alone? Nothing's ever going to save us from the arc of being.

We are beautiful in our doomed rooms, but it doesn't

really matter. They will dance without our names on their

swaying chanting lips. They'll destroy the hidden garden's rough 

beauty in the name of the great goddess of fear, like always.

Oh if there is a greater love it has no

friendship for the living. You'll find no pity in its

deepened and blackly drilled out eyes. But you'll hear the faraway laughter of

its lovely parade, like a quiet bright rain that beckons


and doesn't soak but relieves every imagined wound with a

freshly laundered air. So breathe it in deeply while you

still can, hug another human being. I don't mean to

be that snide, but the time is coming when you

will sink and swirl in so many bitter tears that

you will never touch sweet earth again so innocently. They

are not sorry that you hurt. They only want to

feel their own brand at all times. It's not like they said

it would be at the beginning. We can only write it

down without lying to our own dancing lives and leave it alone, but still there're so many jerks 


to fight off in the bathrooms. They only want everything. Nothing else will

do. That is our war. That is why the sad

faces turn away and weep along with willows. They are ringing like

living bells. Perhaps on that strung hope we can feel

something deeper than the hum of our machines being consumed

by other machines. I only wanted to hold you. That

is not a sin no matter what they say in church. It

is a fabulous miracle of sorts. It is a guitar solo done with some

real flare. It's the more we've always heard them talking about. It is always the plan.

I've got to get going now. Remember me. Dream the life.Dream it well for all of us.