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Water Break


by Darryl Price


When you are one of them
it makes perfect sense to
me; you're one of them, are
we supposed to believe,
no shadow? When you are

one of them, they say you
fall asleep with a peaceful
smile. When you're one with
them, watch as I run to
her naked body. When

you are one of them, you
have no star to guide me
home. You are one of them--
it's a holdup! It's a
nice Christmas. It's a

step between death and life.
A felony report. 
The winds tearing the leaves
off the trees. When you are
one of them, it's not

too early to get stoned.
When you are one of them
it's sad beyond belief.
The lettering of my
speech, a pinprick of light.



Bonus poems:




A Leg Out of Bed by Darryl Price

 

They trip you into traps with their well-armed

tongues. Where is love?  They hang you upside-down

to prove the world is flat. Where is love? What

makes you think this isn't a love letter?

Fumbling over your works must start somewhere.

 

Even if you begin your spiraling

out in space the drain is calling you back

to the center where all feelings converge

into one nuclear bang. I don't care. The

truth is you matter to me. I don't know

 

about anyone else. I look at life

and you are at least a part of it. That

gives me enough electricity to

lift and swing a leg out of bed. There are

other things of course. Bees. Laughter somewhere

 

below the window. You know. Stuff. But I

gave up a long time ago hoping for

the right words to warm you. The words are you.

They are safe where they are. But let me see,

this poem is only a leaf in your

 

hair for a moment. Only a shining

crack of sunlight on a well-worn wooden

floor. Only a car radio. Only

a collar turned up on a cold neck, if

you must know. A guy singing to himself.

 

dp   



Life in a Human Body by Darryl Price

 

This is what we do, stand there and maybe

feel little unfurling leaves like welcome flags

eventually sprout; it happens to

everyone. You think for instance trees don't

walk like us or talk much, but they travel

at their own pace and speak through winds, branches,

 

clouds and stars, until we disturb the long

natural gate of their personal sap

journey with our belching farting machines

of oily stacks of black death. We really

do work for the wrong giant sandal shod

god. We do it with a cheap-ass smile. We'll

 

do it, for some quick beers.  Here's a question

for you: when they feel their bendable kid's

bones snapped into toothpicks, do they cry, well

wouldn't you? We assume nothing matters

quite as much as the air we push around

in our own space. We do it for silver

 

coins and sex. We do it for possible

golden gambling tickets. We do it for

a double cheeseburger. We certainly

don't do it for love, no matter what bright

absurd cosmic claims are made in all those

treasure books about the secret meaning

of life in a human body. You make

your own meaning and you find out if it's

at all true or not as you go. You live

until you die. You fall until you fly.

Sing or sigh. Do or try. So, boring. No

wonder all the kids want out of this town.

 

We've given them no real other choice. That's

Why they walk around the place—they're looking

for that hole in the wall we never found.

More power to them. I'll leave these poems

As a sign of goodwill to their dreaming

Of something more. Something worth the sharp pain.

 

dp        

 

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