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Waiting


by Darryl Price


The fear you represent is a drag. That's all there is to say. But like every other house on the block I have spiders in the basement who are waiting to be brought up into the light. These creatures only want to be good at being alive. Instead

they are given a dangerous reputation. It's much easier to squash what you can never be. Some will mistake your neck for moonlight and settle into a feel good dreamscape, others will rear up on their hind legs and dare you to play god.

That's a sorry wish too easily granted. Now apply that to the world. Things are more like paper than like stone. Every time you choose the easy route you have made the whole world one step closer to blinking out, even if you didn't mean to

be so unforgiving in the first place. You are not the king. There is no king, or there are only kings. Even a real king is not the end of all now because we are living in a spiral city full of holes that can collapse upon themselves at any given moment in time.

Learn to navigate. You're allowed to know things. It's too late to take back our misfortune in the garden now, so we might as well get on with the quest. The idea wasn't to get back, it was to get out, because free is free. Somewhere along

the line this was felt to be worth it--whatever the dangers. So when you make your album don't forget to be involved in every last detail--don't leave it up to someone else to make the small arrangements. You've earned the right to

scream or cry or laugh. And if they sit back and hate you with their stares they are the ones who are swimming in molasses. They are blackening against the rocks. You are rising, rising, and finding it to be a beautiful ride through clouds. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bonus poem:

 

Orange Peel

 

Just your shoulder could cause armies

to rise up out of the sands and clash. That

electricity alone will turn as many stars as

there are into pure desires. I can't help this.

 

It's like any small miracle. The

kind that creeps up on you and you find yourself

frozen with delight. You don't want to move for fear it will

vanish and have been something made only available

 

to certain senses

that tend to scurry away in sudden

unexpected moments like new spring deer. Anyway this

thing before you is my small token of thanks,

 

thanks for the flash of insight, for

the knock on the head of real solid poetry, for

the jolt of dreaming juice, and the lingering colors of all that

sky. Time's gone now. I talk too much. To myself.

 

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