Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Thursday, April 14, 2011

My mind says it wants to forget everything

by Darryl Price

it thinks it knows about getting as far as we
have, to the here where we are now resting our
weary chins. How else can I slap this into a

clay pot for you? All those things that are constantly
being remembered as true love by me are gone for
good and that part of me that even remembers them

is daily fragmenting into some kind of reconditioned paper boat.
I'm seriously beginning to think I might be dangerously low
on the ink of the ages.Maybe that's just the

way it goes. You start missing tablets of vital information
so you start having several troubles getting from here all
the way to there with any kind of finesse or

comfortable ease.The picture changes.The picture changes. The picture changes. I don't know me. I don't want to know
you.Who am I? There's three little mutations for you

all in a crisp plastic row.. no, now it's a
pretty piping foursome. See how quickly things do change? I'm
not here to write you of anything. You'll feel everything

eventually without any help from me. Oh once upon a
time maybe I thought I might actually help you to
get in touch with the living essences of beauty's walking

tour visits without calling it a new or the old
memory kicking in. I'm talking about a real hand to
hold onto yours. Not a movie handholding to longingly watch

on the big screen. Not a novel without an end.
Not a strange message written on a hitchhiker's cardboard destination
sign, but real pungent bunches of fresh flowers growing by

the side of the any road in your own sweet
imaginations. You could just put your own two trembling hands
through the poem's gauze and touch them all if you

wanted , or just enjoy them freely. And then maybe you'd
pull yourself all the way through at last and realize
that it's not a paid for magic that belongs to

you at all but the ability to think for yourself
and create a better world out of nothing. One that
is only partly made of dreaming. One that is surely

there for you to discover and explore according to your
own screwed up courage. One that is neither completely wild
nor polluted beyond poetry's help. I've written this same love

letter to you out of what I've been able to
muster but it sounds like a suicide instead of hello
again. That's because I'm a sad stick figure in the

latest story so far. I know a lot of things
about how things work but I've been drowning in my
own words several times a day. And when I've finally

been able to free myself from the need you've always
been forever gone. My heart must look like a pin
cushion by now. A porcupine on a deserted stretch of

road looking for a leaf to curl under and sleep
tightly wound into a pointy ball until the darkness and
the night are finally become one. Then we'll rise again.

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