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Two Drunken Elves Don't Know a Good Hobbit When They See One


by Darryl Price


Wait for it.  It's not the end of the world, 
it's the end of certain things. It's not that 
the sky is falling, it's that the coral 
reefs are dead or dying. I don't know how 
the ravaged trees have managed to survive 
this long with us breathing down their sore necks. 
It's gaseous in all directions. The moon 
and stars are all turning their shells around 
their shaking bodies and trying to hide 
in silence from us. But, you know, we find 
a way to kill just about everything 
eventually. But that's just ancient 
history come to life as shadow. We 
will make war or we will  die trying. But 
what about the rest of us? For me I 
decided a long time ago that things 
put deeply into my young brain didn't 
necessarily belong there. And I 
kicked them out. It's painful to care about 
other living things, to watch them die from 
senseless murder at the hands of angry 
men who feel they have no right to eat all 
the cash fish. Or whatever. To grow so 
big in our faces. To be so free to 
roam. To think too much. To write poetry. 
It doesn't matter what you do, if they 
spot you, they will destroy you, because that 
is what they do. But do you realize 
they are in the same enemies' grasp, too? 
Wait for it. You don't need another new 

device. You are the best device. You don't 
need to be taught how to be. You need to 
be shown how to trust. Wait for it. Wait for 
it. For it. The end is the beginning. 
There is no going back. There is only 
being here or over there, and over 
there means gone, lost, turning invisible, 
dissolving. The water comes and dilutes 
you. The  mad fire comes and eats you up and 
belches you back out in concentric smoke 
rings that the wind runs away with like a 
greedy child with a big bright buldging red 
baloon. So wait for it. It's all Godot. 
Maybe it comes, maybe it doesn't. Or 
maybe it's already here. Maybe as 
long as you wait it keeps coming. But the 
final arrival is anybody's 
guess. That's the meaning of the essence called 
original art. To guess at something 
so mysterious that it begins to 
make sense by making no sense. Join the club. 
Wait for it. Blah! Waiting is fear. And fear 
is a good thing only once. The rest of 
the time it entraps you in its pretty 
inviting mouth like a butterfly. And 
you get eaten alive. Where's the joy in 
that? Unless you are a monk and can see 
only one hand clapping in a million 
slapped over your mouth, over your soul, and 
over your freedom to self expression. 

Wait for it. Everybody wants to make 
a few bucks off you. If you've got nothing 
they can resell, then you are useless to 
them. But that's always been their real campaign 
promise: we promise to eat you until 
there is nothing left. But, come on, we are 
not their meals. We are families, and friends, 
communities and dancers. Gardening 
poets and passionate painters, swans and 
simple sparrows. Fireflies and jungle cats. 
We are all the stuff that makes up all the 
other stuff that sprouted out of stardust 
sprinkled on our billions of floating souls 
in outer space. We are a loud cosmic 
collision of everything with every
thing else. And it's quite beautiful, also
terrifying. So what? You don't have to 
be afraid to be careful. You don't have 
to hide to care. You don't have to be plain 
stupid to write poetry. Or sing songs. 
Or make a good soup. Whatever we are 
in, it is us, we are it. And that's the 
good news. It always was and always will
be, no matter what they say. And that's my
message to you. Send it along. The sky
may be falling, but it may need to in 
order to survive. Everything wants to 
continue to live now. And some of those 
beings are older than all of us put 
together. Let's help them regain balance. dp



Bonus poems:



We Are

by Darryl Price


here. Some of us are gone now. Many more 
of us are trying to remember good 
things that are sweet and fair in this world. Some 
say there's not much left, but I disagree. 
Because we are here. And as long as we 
are, there will be laughter. And tears to be 
sure. There will be music. There will be shared 
instances we're not even aware of 
yet. And the big mystery that surrounds 
us all. But there will be something else: a 
determined strong humane striving toward 
finding another answer. A brand new 
another. Until we are someplace else. 
Someplace better. Today the world is filled 
with a ghastly invisible illness. 
But it didn't stop the trees from budding 
or the birds from singing. My grass needs cut. 
There will be rains. We are not through being 
challenged. And we never will be. There will 
be loud cheering again. Maybe from the 
rooftops, if we are lucky. There will be 
profound silence. And weeping. And tender 
holding of hands. But there will be skipping 
poetry and comedy. Who knows where 
it will come from this time? But there will be
thankful sharing. There will be much talking 
together. We will find our way. Because 
we are here. It's where we live. It's our home. 




Let's Dance

by Darryl Price


But that's what they are doing, as they put 
on their thin paper masks. As they come in 
the closeted rooms and become a rare 
presence other than impending doom. As 
they allow you to look on the glowing 
eyes of another being and see all 
life, even your own, is precious. As they 
expend all of their own energy on 
little acts of  kindness that may never 
arrive in time. As they continue to 
love the ones they left behind in trusted 
hands. As the rain doesn't stop swelling the 

drowning sewers to capacity. As 
the latest tornadoes arrive with the 
currents to feed upon everything in 
their path. As the sun sharpens his long and  
pointy nails against the new flowers of 
Spring again and the river stone bark of 
ancient trees for future entrapment. But 
really that's who they are. We are. The dance 
is everything happening to all of 
us at once. As we put on our shoes and 
decisvely step upon the same grass 
and walk up the same stairs, begin again 

to see what we can do about all of 
this culminating mess we are now and 
always will be in together. Doesn't 
matter who made it. Because if one of 
us made it then we are all guilty of 
doing it. But they do their jobs, believe 
in doing their jobs. They leave their homes. They 
leave their babies. They leave their husbands. Their 
wives. They take the subway. They take the trains. 
They go by car. They come on bycycles 
and on foot. Just so that we can have a 
fighting chance. They respond first every time. 

Those Teeth

by Darryl Price


We are so quick to forget
who we are talking to. They 
have surely grown those long sharp 
teeth for a dreaming season 
of their own. They developed 
a hungry brain that wants to 
kill for a living. Our brains 
are not made from the same soil. 

We somehow developed soft 
dreamscapes to play hide and seek 
in, but figured on coming 
together eventually 
for one more starry laugh 
in the dusky hypnotic 
night. Because it feels good. It 
actually feels right. It 

feels perfectly fixed in good 
time. Lovesongs have to come from 
someplace that's real or they don't 
matter. Listen to yourself. 
Do they matter? Only you 
can answer that question for 
you. That's why you don't need to 
ever follow anyone 

into the garden unless 
you want to. Everywhere is 
the garden. You can choose love. 
It's just that some of it is 
not as nice as we want it 
to be. Neglect. War. Famine. 
No clean water. Disease. Ease 
that was not allowed to just 

flourish into wild free fun.  
Why deny it? But that's all 
still being explored by those 
possessed of it because the 
forever trail never ends. 
It always spirals, weaves 
and spirals around and around 
every new grain of sand in 

the timeless ocean, souls who 
can't let go of a tiny 
nagging question. They tend to 
go colorless. So why do 
I care so much, you might not 
remember how much? Because, 
my dear, as I've always told 
you, it's true, I do. You are 

not only a someone, but 
a sacred temple to me. 
A place where I readjust 
everything I know and feel 
into simply being here
with you. I don't claim to know
what it means beyond heaven.
Foresake not hope, if you can.


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