by Darryl Price
The once shining lake was busy draining itself. All the better cared for boats were looking like disjointed discarded single shoes in a messed up paint
chipped closet. No one was thinking well okay a leaky sole is better than a wounded heel. You get the picture, it was pure roadkill. Turns out war causes
everyone to turn into their favorite cartoon animals. That part they got right. They were right to draw it on all the crumbling buildings and more than right
to reward it with its own special day with masks and everything, but you couldn't convince the public. Nothing convinces the public. All they want out
of this particular post life is to bite down into something warmish and finish the whole argumentative night off with a great big slice of Fall TV shows.
Hey they voted for it on both sides of the Atlantic. Only some of us chose to listen to some new music, not the kind you have to dress up for, but the kind
you have to show up for inside of yourself, to wake up to. Well perhaps that's too sarcastic if you care what other people think, it's not meant to be, it's only
a tiny pebble rolling down an ancient hill after all. The real mudslide began a long time ago when the dinosaurs decided to evaporate and the hordes of
walking fish decided to investigate the mountains of trash left over from that startling exit to see if they might have an appetite for monumental change,
too. Then we came charging along with our viciously trained tanks rolling over everything and flattening the script. If we had found a way to also roll up
the sky it would have been done, to hang on some guy's wall while he masturbates to Wagner. Again, too cruel or too polite? The war brought us
together. It forced us into a hole. It washed us out again and again. We gathered our things and told our feet to not look back, but some did any way.
Paris Is Alive ( a draft)
We are all living cities of light, only some of us are turned off. When
We get there, we get there. We find we fit in the shape we were
All along. They can blacken the skies with their poisoned cups of spilled over anger.
They can disrupt the freedom of music of the spheres with their own rain of
Out of tune hate filled bullets. But they can't see in the mirror that is
Each and every face. They can't hear the human pain more unbearable than their own
Perceived punishment for living. The master they serve is eating them alive. The master they
Store in a scowl is rewriting the pages backwards in the hopes of reaching total
Annihilation, not Paradise, but hell. And still ordinary laughter will crack the spackle of doom.
It starts anywhere with a smile. It travels with a kiss, a hand holding a
Hand. This is what the people know. It's not a religion. It's not a military
Quest for power. It's a poem, a song, a feeling. And it has no boundaries.
When we get there, we light up. We are all amazing cities of light. It's
Dancing. It's laughing and crying. It's dreaming. It's being together inside our hearts. They can
Chop off as many flowers as there are blades of grass. It only takes one,
Even one of their own, to start a garden. Just ask the moon and stars.
The gut knows when
you are with the
right person. You are
the guts of the pumpkin in the field
or in the street, in the car, or
in your own head.
Why do you believe
what others spout when
your guts tell you
something different? The gut knows you better than
you know yourself. It reaches from the bottom
to the top. The
gut is a moralist,
but most of the
best comedians are. Don't
make the gut angry--write that down--because
you won't like what it does to your
nervous system. The gut
never loses its way.
My guts named you
as the sole benefactor
to my love then
promptly kicked me stranded by the side of the road when it
came time to tell
you this news.Oh
the gut knows you
probably won't listen to
its new sensation any more than you once
listened to its old, but that's not my
conundrum. Don't worry.
I'm on my way
out of here. If
only things could have
been different. Maybe our guts would have been
enough to see it all through, but something's
telling me, dream on.
All rights reserved.
There's always two sides to every story, every conflict. People on both sides believe they are in the right place. That creates a stalemate or a break in the dam. Sometimes I observe these goings-on with a terrible sadness, other times I just sit to sit.