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Why Music Matters


by Darryl Price



 

There once was a real holy spirit that was a gift of kindness given to all the wrong people. The wrong people are still the same ones among us who willingly use this light to hurt other living beings on a daily basis, to twist them into hideous shapes of death, beneath which their jewel encrusted fingers perform the final blows to life, and creepy smoldering designs are put on fire and disfigure their natural beauty with lies, like heaps of scattered broken bones. They have caused much bleeding among the people, but more than this they knifed the sacred covenant between animals and free stars, so that no clear understanding about the true nature of things could pass unnoticed into the hearts of men any more, which is the doorway of fresh wisdom. On this cruel

 

path of course they could easily collect all the unguarded money and food for themselves, and steal everybody's lasting beauty for their own privately gated walls and dungeons. This caused a growing hole in the brains of artists everywhere—all of whom began to paint only in smeared circles of red, like wounded beasts caught in a steel leg trap. The weeping has become a smoking part of the landscape. These so called guardians next met on high and decided who should get to weld their stolen power next to them, for a hefty price of arms and men. Only the grandest bidders were welcomed at that table, in the middle of the night. The rich became greedier, if that's even possible, through the sorcery of hateful manipulation of the true facts of love and sacrifice, that

 

this spirit was being abused by those held in highest esteem throughout the darkening landscape. This spirit was trapped in a book like dried ink on a page, held prisoner, granting selfish wishes on a lustful whim, like a genie in a magic lamp, and simply made to do things that brought sorrow and shame to its eternal flame. Then something great came along. New Kids came along, kids who were not buying into the old worn out stories, kids who preferred to dance in the streets for free, who were not afraid of the colors of the night, suggestively hugged the moon again and made her blush, kids who whistled a joyful longing into the air, by some beautiful ragged daylight of their own invention. This alone woke up enough thought to be dead tree spirits to move a mountain. The first thing they did was free the holy spirit from its rotten cage and laugh and cry again into the forgotten hills with many joyful echoes.




Bonus poems:



 

Totem Poles (Click Here To View)(a first draft)

by Darryl Price


There's nothing so low then that you wouldn't have tried already to rip it open and spoil in your dumbed-down sadness, all to

end the world for not noticing you in its castdown eyes a lot sooner, but the vain world fought

back from that kind of silly-assed melting candle wax war, like extinction on its own

brutalizing enough terms. It wasn't size that

matters but substance. Still if I

have indeed loved you in my own small 

way and that means given you as

much of this life as I possibly could then please

 

accept once more this truly meant for you alone sweet kiss of air coming your lost way right now...wish

only that the secret places had made more

valuable time together available 

out of the tiresome facts to us. All it did instead

was leave me far behind, at the sad end of my own 

lost curb, in a place that never

looked quite the same again. Sometimes it feels like the

same thing but it's not. The lamplighter has no purpose anymore 

 

even to the headbutting moths of painful circumstance.

Those lopsided sidewalks have no material

purpose either anymore,  even to

the ticking time-bomb shoes of sorrow, the ghost garden parades the abandoned bikes, the sideways

rolling acrobatic leaves,

the frying drops of rain, the dripping off the earth's arms moon maidens,

the smelly stacked up stars, the freezing of the lights smack in the middle of everything,

the opening breezes, colder from the cracked  

 

car windows, dogs who sniff every mailbox

for fresh news that travels in and

out of other dogs . And now I myself 

am to find out if I've got yet another

strangely filled pocket crammed full of more words that

somehow meanings, less and less, they start

to disappear even before

they fall from my broken away hands and fingers. Once I

 

would have simply fed them to the sparrows, if there

was no one else around watching me,

or given them saintly unto

the sleeping grasses, like a quick shot of

Kentucky bourbon, or a broken

string of love beads, or a no longer

maybe so perfect scratched cat's eye marble with a chip in its otherwise perfectly round face, or a

missing wooden eye, then or a miniature plastic model of an alien 

 

spaceship tripod, or a souvenir scroll painted on a bark

canoe-- the cheapest kind you can get--

and later wonder why you'd

buy such an unremarkable ugly thing to put on your desk blotter in the first place.

When I was a kid I was fascinated

with totem poles. I

collected dozens of them like

other kids collected WWII airplanes, or  tiny plastic molded colorful gumball 

 

trains that flew anywhere on tracks only found in the minds of childhood countries. They gave me a false sense of rainbow comfort. I now know that  

is something I usually

found rather frightening on

a daily basis, but all that's

so far from the pages you're reading,

we'll soon be on different books

altogether if I go any further. I never wanted

to see you crumble. Goodbye.




bonus poem:


Nothing Will Be Left


by Darryl Price


 

 

This isn't a where for you to what down upon with your heavy handed hurtful stares again and again. No. Well

some would say counting down the

softly rising rows of constantly 

crumbling ancient guardian

mountains in the emptying rooms of shadowy  

 

mists is still being reason enough to go on that long trip , but in the end they really 

couldn't add up to such loveliness, to

simply being alone

with you. That's all

there is to say. Someone else

might find this lost passageway

 

and coax the tossing

sun from behind

its own glowing head

of darkly flowing

hair for you. When you look into

that dreaming face

 

there is every promise

and every hurtful

ache to come.  How long will

you always forgive

that unfair comparison its deep and lingering bite on the inside?

That's the problem,

 

isn't it? We're

all up against the impossible

possible. Yet

I stumble over

these buried words myself like

any child would. I add my

 

still tiding voice to

the climb that's only

partly there and is

only going to

presently sound out

completely in the

 

new order of things, those

made specifically from light (that you'll

hardly remember).

All this would be fine

if I thought you'd be

given your heaven.


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