"Wisdom Is Death" by Darryl Price

Wisdom Is Death

for Edward

Victory is death. Rock stardom is death. Life is murder.

Love's still beaded longer than any row of stars. You

can't stop death from turning to face you, but its

not exactly expecting your poem's referral either. In other words

stop worrying about the facts. The birds are amazing. The

trees are amazing. The sky is the best kite in

the world. Frogs and bats are just as plentiful and

colorful as shells. Leaves always say the darndest things.Death

is a bridge, but all bridges lead somewhere. You can

call a bridge a wall if you want to, but

that only makes it harder to pass over. Love eats

death. Love keeps growing from nothing to something without losing

its balance. Love's awake even when all else is asleep.

You can't imagine love, love imagines you. Death can't dance

the way love can. It can stomp. It's a good

stomper. But only love can turn you into you, all

the way. Love never forgives you because you are never

forgotten. Death is a beetle good at what it does,

it rolls up the shit and drives it away. So

what if it always comes back for more? Love smiles

more often. And any way it's not a contest. Death

hurts because it has no feeling. There's nothing there. You

and I are here. My glow for you is alive

and well. That's all there is to say. That's all

there is to do, to be. Our friend's long gone,

without us, neither will our hearts leave him to cease.

This Exit

by Darryl Price

This Exit

We are the people who are never coming back. I

would be okay with that, except for you. That's always

been my main feeling. The world can do without me,

but not you. That would be unthinkable. Something's always trying

to rewrite itself and stay in the same merry moment.

At the last second not many are letting go of

their straw. You were chosen, at least by me, to

be the one who should be saved. How this is

supposed to happen, I don't rightly know. I can't worry

about that darkened path through so many thickening crowded dreams

now. It's hard enough just to see the shapes of

things to come or let go of the muted hour,

but I know the ocean green would never be the

equal to its own sunlight again, no rare bird would

want to soar to that tree of missing cloud, because

no freedom would ever feel as good as coming down

into your palm like a perfectly sewn nest on a

very high branch protected by an ancient warrior mountain. We

will be marked by markers, if we're lucky, but you

should always be being drawn from new pure stone by

sure hands adept at making beautiful sense of the perfected

lines of both leaf and flower where they grow best.

Author's Note

I was passing by a graveyard when that first line came to me. It was a beautiful day in every way--a day you couldn't take your eyes off of if you wanted to. I was driving down the highway thinking in spite of it all--all the sorrows,all the war,the hunger,the misunderstandings--the world presents us with an unbelievable place to lay down. Then I thought how could we ever get along without those we love being in the world with us? The world only went on singing its incredible song, as lovely and as moving as anything ever could be, to me through the air, the sun and the road.