by Darryl Price
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.
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.
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