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You May Telephone From Here


by Darryl Price



There's something in the space you

are tonight that's for me a

sweet presence in my own life,

and so like any other

coward I write a poem

in vain. It will never be

seen as itself by you, but


possibly be mistaken

for an open window. Some

will definitely call it

furniture, some will wrongly

identify it as mere

photography, but it's a

hand, more specifically


my hand. It always was. True

friends long to touch each other

again. Sometimes the best we

can do is to reach out from

the room we are in, feeling

throughout our lives for the sweet

evidence that our love is


always coming after us. 

In the meantime we fall

into deep dark sentences,

into words spoken to no

one in particular. I'll

send this any way, a part

of both our worlds, not the best.




Bonus stuff:



Writing Crawling On a Wall


by Darryl Price


"Art and Revolt will die only with the last man."--Albert Camus

"You'd better free your mind instead."--John Lennon

 

Cosmic-Consciousness is over. The revolution

Was just in your thinking.

Process this: what's left will

Be swept up into another

Reason for another war. Oh-yes

We may see the wringing

Of some hands for the

Poor sick, but none for

Their fellow man. Paid Politicians

Bellow about the need to

 

Protect the rich, who barely

Lift their pompous forks before

Going back to their comfortable

Arguments over which outboard motor

Performs best in bright sunshine.

The sky is blue and blue

Is so gorgeous! The revolution

Disappeared as if it never

Existed, turning into a charming

Postcard in a box of

 

Many more broken sets. Download

The APP today! The soundtrack's

Soundtrack has been packaged and

Repackaged for your phony listening

Pleasure in lieu of flowers.

TV's weathermen will now protect

Us from harm—they have

All the best machines for

Masters. Today's in-crowd have been

Pacified with pet machines of

 

Their own. The clones have

Won out over kindred spirits.

Gunslingers are in charge of

The darkness in our souls.

The revolution's beacon stains our

Heads with cracked, captured rain.  

The innocent judgement of children

Is the only thing we

Can hope for to waken

Us from our stupid pride.



Author's Note

All the slings and arrows won't make it any less true. What will is the unselfish acts of caring people. This is what I believe in. People are capable of anything. They can turn into whales and save the world from hideous eternal dark things at the bottom of the oceans. They can bring their souls to bare--taking the brunt of anything out there with incredible grace. People have poetry and poetry has its people. So even though I can write a piece like this I do it with a whistle and a wink.


War

 

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.



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