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Waiting on the Sun


by Darryl Price


Don't change, your minds, for me, that is. Maybe 
we're like fading away ghosts, waiting on 
the sun to finish the job on our favorite 
pair of blue jeans. You ever think 
of that, my friend? Hey, even a guy like 

me knows she's never coming back again. 
Oh, merde! It's really a full-on dangerous 
little world out there. Okay, but am 
I always to be required to think it's 
also a darling, big old beautiful 

one (world), if you look hard enough, as well? 
Maybe I do. Inwardly more than outwardly. 
But then I also thought I just 
might be the one to turn false love away, 
and be free, and never ever look back 

on my lucky break with regret. Little 
did I know, but I thought I knew, about 
the bigger fish yet to fry. There's always 
something just as hungry as you are lurking 
about the leaky boat's belly and 

sides. Failure is what they buy the popcorn 
for. Their fat minds require it to stay tuned-
in any longer than five seconds at 
a time. Even so they're only thinking 
of the next sparkling bucket of slop. The 

rare beauty seems to rise up in spite of 
all of us standing around doing nothing 
but complaining. It appears like a 
picture postcard on a souvenir rack 
and you can't take your eyes off of it. You 

want to possess it so badly, but all 
you've got is a photograph and a citizenry 
that can't read your writing. Don't 
blame me. I voted to cease with all the 
back and forth hatred long ago. Now who's 

going to bravely clean up the awful 
scientific mess left behind? Floors littered 
with sunken bombs and bodies, broken 
arms and severed legs, and colorful spools 
of robot guts. We like our knowledge, we 

just don't want to have to worry about 
all that silly wisdom junking up the 
fun and intellectual stuffing hitting 
the fan like that. Can't we just sit? See
if there's a good new series on somewhere.   
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