by Darryl Price
in the rain when one said
to the other,"I so
want to eat you right now!"
The other one smiled with
many sharp teeth and said,
"Yes,I want to eat you,
too, so much,but I'd be
sad if you were to disappear
from the world forever."
Later on as
they snuggled under stars
for blankets something ran
a wheel in this boy's chest.
Showing posts with label Darryl Price. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Darryl Price. Show all posts
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Rising
by Darryl Price
The coin, so little, the watch chain, the youth,
so to speak, each hand, the panic room, the
here and there, the ashtray, the stumps, the distance now,
the feathers, the jump, the radiant shadows, the spine
in gold letters, the arc, the circumstances, the mirrors,
stories, the talk, the torn away grasses, the collective
nouns, the esthetic, the city limits, the next year,
the correct use of the young money's predicament, the
voices, the hell, the hunting of the relevance of
the object, these boys, the light of the lamp,
the bonkers world, the baseball cap, the old pine
trees, the flapping din, by contrast, the most maddening
thing, the darkening apartment bricks, just outside the window,
the lighted fire, the strange smell, the endless appetite
beneath, biting the inside of my mouth, the small
lie, if you insist, the puzzled exaltation of rising.
The coin, so little, the watch chain, the youth,
so to speak, each hand, the panic room, the
here and there, the ashtray, the stumps, the distance now,
the feathers, the jump, the radiant shadows, the spine
in gold letters, the arc, the circumstances, the mirrors,
stories, the talk, the torn away grasses, the collective
nouns, the esthetic, the city limits, the next year,
the correct use of the young money's predicament, the
voices, the hell, the hunting of the relevance of
the object, these boys, the light of the lamp,
the bonkers world, the baseball cap, the old pine
trees, the flapping din, by contrast, the most maddening
thing, the darkening apartment bricks, just outside the window,
the lighted fire, the strange smell, the endless appetite
beneath, biting the inside of my mouth, the small
lie, if you insist, the puzzled exaltation of rising.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Sea
by Darryl Price
To our credit we walked into the coral
caves with our ancestral humanity and
an open air of resolute courage.
To shore, of course, and then to the big messy
plants that have always been the islands. Stars like
lavender shoes command all the attention.
It follows from this that the slower-moving
molecules will have this same energy path
eventually in the grand scheme and turn
back into absolute mind, to being, rather
than God, a good landscape for the sun to
affirm or deny again and again.
To our credit we walked into the coral
caves with our ancestral humanity and
an open air of resolute courage.
To shore, of course, and then to the big messy
plants that have always been the islands. Stars like
lavender shoes command all the attention.
It follows from this that the slower-moving
molecules will have this same energy path
eventually in the grand scheme and turn
back into absolute mind, to being, rather
than God, a good landscape for the sun to
affirm or deny again and again.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
(Twin) Moon(s)
by Darryl Price
A late blue electricity, frying up nicely, you and I,
you and me, then so briefly sure, a candle inside
wind rains, slipped into always sad afternoons, filling my thoughts,
and that'll be that, your lips, my mouth, I was
amazed, I don't know if it means anything, invisible to
the naked eye, passionate, possessive, the outer grey galaxies, this
exhausted, lonely, marbled countertop, no longer humming as it should;
later a softened madness in the middle-ages that he seemed
to profess to us both that I hoped for her
sake she found particularly offensive, I admit my words might
count as cherry trees for markings, a cruel joke, since
you have thin cold fingers studying barbed wire, more likely
the ice forming all at once, rudely, a hole in
the heart, equally perilous and apple red, like unforgiving mediocrity.
A late blue electricity, frying up nicely, you and I,
you and me, then so briefly sure, a candle inside
wind rains, slipped into always sad afternoons, filling my thoughts,
and that'll be that, your lips, my mouth, I was
amazed, I don't know if it means anything, invisible to
the naked eye, passionate, possessive, the outer grey galaxies, this
exhausted, lonely, marbled countertop, no longer humming as it should;
later a softened madness in the middle-ages that he seemed
to profess to us both that I hoped for her
sake she found particularly offensive, I admit my words might
count as cherry trees for markings, a cruel joke, since
you have thin cold fingers studying barbed wire, more likely
the ice forming all at once, rudely, a hole in
the heart, equally perilous and apple red, like unforgiving mediocrity.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Cat Pulls No Sudden Punches
by Darryl Price
“ The reach of your compassion/ is the reach of your art.”—Joseph Campbell
It springs its ready claws into
action and takes a sloppy chance
that things will probably go its
feline way. But you my friend. Must
you always throw the testing switch
to high voltage on me? Yeah I
get that the history teachers don't
want me to talk with you again,
but they have never been smart enough
to learn now from us. That's bothered
me a ton in the past. I'm
pretty sure they still don't get it.
The we as we part. They think their
aged kind of knowledge is the
supreme skeleton key, but let
them try fitting that polished old
ship into their bottled sadness
without collapsing the universe.
I don't want to sound morbid.
I enjoy life. I've learned to live
with the pain. It simply comes like it
belongs here so who am I
to judge it unwelcomed otherwise?
Pain is one petal. One pissing
cloud. One star. One shoe without
the other. One beamed signal from
deep outer space. For those of you
smart enough to know your elbows
from your college degree I give
you this list. One love. One soul. One
light. One tragic ballad. One yang;
One multipurpose. One acceptable
transference. One history.
One call back. One available
backseat. One careless whisper.
One four letter word. One forgiveness.
One summer night. One rat. One
carefully buried finger. One
lost time. One wall. One living flesh.
“ The reach of your compassion/ is the reach of your art.”—Joseph Campbell
It springs its ready claws into
action and takes a sloppy chance
that things will probably go its
feline way. But you my friend. Must
you always throw the testing switch
to high voltage on me? Yeah I
get that the history teachers don't
want me to talk with you again,
but they have never been smart enough
to learn now from us. That's bothered
me a ton in the past. I'm
pretty sure they still don't get it.
The we as we part. They think their
aged kind of knowledge is the
supreme skeleton key, but let
them try fitting that polished old
ship into their bottled sadness
without collapsing the universe.
I don't want to sound morbid.
I enjoy life. I've learned to live
with the pain. It simply comes like it
belongs here so who am I
to judge it unwelcomed otherwise?
Pain is one petal. One pissing
cloud. One star. One shoe without
the other. One beamed signal from
deep outer space. For those of you
smart enough to know your elbows
from your college degree I give
you this list. One love. One soul. One
light. One tragic ballad. One yang;
One multipurpose. One acceptable
transference. One history.
One call back. One available
backseat. One careless whisper.
One four letter word. One forgiveness.
One summer night. One rat. One
carefully buried finger. One
lost time. One wall. One living flesh.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Old Hat
by Darryl Price
Sent you a hat. I thought it might keep you
warm in the middle of a snow storm,or couch.
As you'll see my words right now are all acting
out like a good many glassy-eyed marbles. They'll oh so
coldly clank in my case that is against one another's
bulky light bulb heads constantly or else like to sit
quietly in a small bark Indian satchel I might sometimes
keep in a desk drawer, with the staples, waiting to
be played with. Like I said. The next unlikely story
of a long time lonely volcano of my type finally
getting to go off gets told in this book with
a thousand cheering voices shouting in my veins. Hooray for
beer! I suppose it's hard to actually hear what's being
said in there sideways. You might not even like this
art game being played over you in that particular library.
We're all anxiously holding our cards and our pistols at
arm's length. Those young guys all look pretty finger happy
to me. I must admit I don't really have much
else to send you in the way of cool greetings
from this here saloon from my rickety exile's chair, because
that's what life is, compared to being around you all
the time. Sorry, but my bum's just a little sore
from all the hours of thought given over so far
to this bit of hat. And as if you're some
kind of living planet up there alone in the sky,
and everyone else is a moon like chunk of mush,
instead of some kind of living song we can't stop
humming. What a jackass I am. That sounds silly, but
I'm prone to leave it in simply because it came
prancing out at you that way. Perhaps there's some truth
to the practice since it began to shake its sad
little riderless shape after the very thought of you, as
they say. 'Bout the only thing they've said that I
do agree with. If I could I'd want to be
fully living and dying present in your lovely presence. That's
what I meant to say. Yeah I know how much
it sounds like a broken record. Pretty stupid. Used up
to all gone again,brother. Old hat. That's what I'm
talking about here anyway. I need to shift it on
over into something a lot more interesting, more to the
feel than that blubbering slow beat of a goofy sound.
Believe me I would if I could, wouldn't I? So
here's just another, for whatever reason you want to imagine
it, kind of sentence for you. Yeah you've already got
several of those in today's mail. I'll bet it's a
daily thing too. At least by now you'd think. You
are at your perfect point of self. And your game
is all about the choosing. Oh this one and maybe
that one. How could it ever be a me, that
poetry guy, when I'm a million emotional miles away, stuck
like a rock between a word and a sentence, like
a comma or one of those brake stomping periods? That's
not much to look at, even on a page like
this one, or to bank your only happiness wish on.
I know. I only want it to be more like
a perfect day landing softly on your brown skin like
a barely felt set of butterfly feet, or a cool,
cool breeze swiping its long fuzzy tail across your sky
opening smile, or an ocean, any ocean will do as
long as it's morning,like a cup of delicious blue
and green and white striped dreams, lifting sweetly into the
bluest blue on your horizon, just waiting to happen for
you, and with you. And me. At least that's the
dumb founding hope I seem to be holding onto like
a man who lives in a lighthouse walking around and
around the rocks for the umpteenth time still looking to
find his lost set of keys. So, Universe, do you
think you could see fit to give her this note
for me in one of your amazingly synchronising ways? I'd
like there to be birds involved, maybe a new dolphin.
Sent you a hat. I thought it might keep you
warm in the middle of a snow storm,or couch.
As you'll see my words right now are all acting
out like a good many glassy-eyed marbles. They'll oh so
coldly clank in my case that is against one another's
bulky light bulb heads constantly or else like to sit
quietly in a small bark Indian satchel I might sometimes
keep in a desk drawer, with the staples, waiting to
be played with. Like I said. The next unlikely story
of a long time lonely volcano of my type finally
getting to go off gets told in this book with
a thousand cheering voices shouting in my veins. Hooray for
beer! I suppose it's hard to actually hear what's being
said in there sideways. You might not even like this
art game being played over you in that particular library.
We're all anxiously holding our cards and our pistols at
arm's length. Those young guys all look pretty finger happy
to me. I must admit I don't really have much
else to send you in the way of cool greetings
from this here saloon from my rickety exile's chair, because
that's what life is, compared to being around you all
the time. Sorry, but my bum's just a little sore
from all the hours of thought given over so far
to this bit of hat. And as if you're some
kind of living planet up there alone in the sky,
and everyone else is a moon like chunk of mush,
instead of some kind of living song we can't stop
humming. What a jackass I am. That sounds silly, but
I'm prone to leave it in simply because it came
prancing out at you that way. Perhaps there's some truth
to the practice since it began to shake its sad
little riderless shape after the very thought of you, as
they say. 'Bout the only thing they've said that I
do agree with. If I could I'd want to be
fully living and dying present in your lovely presence. That's
what I meant to say. Yeah I know how much
it sounds like a broken record. Pretty stupid. Used up
to all gone again,brother. Old hat. That's what I'm
talking about here anyway. I need to shift it on
over into something a lot more interesting, more to the
feel than that blubbering slow beat of a goofy sound.
Believe me I would if I could, wouldn't I? So
here's just another, for whatever reason you want to imagine
it, kind of sentence for you. Yeah you've already got
several of those in today's mail. I'll bet it's a
daily thing too. At least by now you'd think. You
are at your perfect point of self. And your game
is all about the choosing. Oh this one and maybe
that one. How could it ever be a me, that
poetry guy, when I'm a million emotional miles away, stuck
like a rock between a word and a sentence, like
a comma or one of those brake stomping periods? That's
not much to look at, even on a page like
this one, or to bank your only happiness wish on.
I know. I only want it to be more like
a perfect day landing softly on your brown skin like
a barely felt set of butterfly feet, or a cool,
cool breeze swiping its long fuzzy tail across your sky
opening smile, or an ocean, any ocean will do as
long as it's morning,like a cup of delicious blue
and green and white striped dreams, lifting sweetly into the
bluest blue on your horizon, just waiting to happen for
you, and with you. And me. At least that's the
dumb founding hope I seem to be holding onto like
a man who lives in a lighthouse walking around and
around the rocks for the umpteenth time still looking to
find his lost set of keys. So, Universe, do you
think you could see fit to give her this note
for me in one of your amazingly synchronising ways? I'd
like there to be birds involved, maybe a new dolphin.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
I Only Can Tell You
by Darryl Price
your irises are more
to me than any of these early hills,like slow-
motion sea flowers bound to leisurely happen,
and out pops the ready
to eat sun to make the
whole world come alive with new possibilities
again. What pours forth then on all else around here
from that simple beginning
is every first beginning
for me from the colors of trees to the dull
winds brightening themselves like paper against the
whirl of each shimmering
ghost as it glides on by.
Your gaze alone seems to give them their freedom to
continue to present change and growth throughout the
courageous hours. I don't
want you to think that that
means you are in charge of their solitary meanings.
It only gives them an extra amount of
this morning's fine residual
pearl of green (cleared
to go) fuel they'll ever need to blow off on their
own into the mysterious worlds everywhere.
your irises are more
to me than any of these early hills,like slow-
motion sea flowers bound to leisurely happen,
and out pops the ready
to eat sun to make the
whole world come alive with new possibilities
again. What pours forth then on all else around here
from that simple beginning
is every first beginning
for me from the colors of trees to the dull
winds brightening themselves like paper against the
whirl of each shimmering
ghost as it glides on by.
Your gaze alone seems to give them their freedom to
continue to present change and growth throughout the
courageous hours. I don't
want you to think that that
means you are in charge of their solitary meanings.
It only gives them an extra amount of
this morning's fine residual
pearl of green (cleared
to go) fuel they'll ever need to blow off on their
own into the mysterious worlds everywhere.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Lusby Sees Some Tulips
by Darryl Price
The first thing the very first thing I thought was who doesn't know me well enough to send me of all the people in the whole wide world a bunch
of red tulips, and there was no escaping the fact of the red mind you,
like a bunch of tiny paper box kites tied up in a twisty tie of
snuggled together trees, caught as surely as minnows in a shiny tin measuring cup. At
least something over in that general vicinity was shining from a polished table top.Could've
been a gum wrapper for all I know.But that was through some still fuzzy
eyes. What brought the whole thing back to me as a sharp as hell relief
was a small little corner of torn blue sky that had got itself pushed into
the corner of the one and only window in the room like a used and
discarded tissue. I was also thinking I sure could use one of those soft reminders
about now but then I thought what for? My eyes were already cleared obviously and
my nose seemed to be working okay, although all it could smell was some awful
pungent handsoap smell, the kind that is named after a fancy fragrance found somewhere in
nature but is secretly made all out of chemicals. I couldn't really turn myself around
in bed so I couldn't begin to escape the goddamned tulips, although by now they
tended more toward tightly fisted pink roses of some sort, which was a bit of a welcomed relief I guess. I only wanted to get my hands on a nice
warm mug of chocolate milk and shove myself down into the furthest corner of my
own comfy couch at my own bit of home and watch a few minutes of
TV. Doesn't matter what's on or what's doing. I love TV. It brings me down out of the heights of fear every time I see it.I guess that means
I was afraid of the tulips. I don't really know why. I guess it's all
the socalled canned laughter they layer on the poor puns and bad jokes.On TV
I mean. The situations that can heal themselves right there in your livingroom in oh
a half an hour or so. And the crazy,fun people. I love to see
all the beautiful young people, living their lives as if we don't need to spend so much time worrying about the blazing meteorites coming at us from outer space. At
least not all the whole time we're alive. Sometimes we just want to have fun with one another. Perhaps that's what I've missed the opportunity for. Now I'm paying for
it. Is that it?And then just like that the fickle roses seemed like a
box of squared to be found tulips again and I thought,fuck,sorry lord, what
is this all about anyway? Who are these strange people I can feel here in
my room with me but cannot see? I know if something's being spelled out in
flowers or not. Believe me. Please.Do not try to brighten my sleep for me.
I have angels for that.They do a fine bang up job all on their
own. And they sound just like shaking bells when they are walking towards you. I
ought to know. I've been walking with them for several months now.
The first thing the very first thing I thought was who doesn't know me well enough to send me of all the people in the whole wide world a bunch
of red tulips, and there was no escaping the fact of the red mind you,
like a bunch of tiny paper box kites tied up in a twisty tie of
snuggled together trees, caught as surely as minnows in a shiny tin measuring cup. At
least something over in that general vicinity was shining from a polished table top.Could've
been a gum wrapper for all I know.But that was through some still fuzzy
eyes. What brought the whole thing back to me as a sharp as hell relief
was a small little corner of torn blue sky that had got itself pushed into
the corner of the one and only window in the room like a used and
discarded tissue. I was also thinking I sure could use one of those soft reminders
about now but then I thought what for? My eyes were already cleared obviously and
my nose seemed to be working okay, although all it could smell was some awful
pungent handsoap smell, the kind that is named after a fancy fragrance found somewhere in
nature but is secretly made all out of chemicals. I couldn't really turn myself around
in bed so I couldn't begin to escape the goddamned tulips, although by now they
tended more toward tightly fisted pink roses of some sort, which was a bit of a welcomed relief I guess. I only wanted to get my hands on a nice
warm mug of chocolate milk and shove myself down into the furthest corner of my
own comfy couch at my own bit of home and watch a few minutes of
TV. Doesn't matter what's on or what's doing. I love TV. It brings me down out of the heights of fear every time I see it.I guess that means
I was afraid of the tulips. I don't really know why. I guess it's all
the socalled canned laughter they layer on the poor puns and bad jokes.On TV
I mean. The situations that can heal themselves right there in your livingroom in oh
a half an hour or so. And the crazy,fun people. I love to see
all the beautiful young people, living their lives as if we don't need to spend so much time worrying about the blazing meteorites coming at us from outer space. At
least not all the whole time we're alive. Sometimes we just want to have fun with one another. Perhaps that's what I've missed the opportunity for. Now I'm paying for
it. Is that it?And then just like that the fickle roses seemed like a
box of squared to be found tulips again and I thought,fuck,sorry lord, what
is this all about anyway? Who are these strange people I can feel here in
my room with me but cannot see? I know if something's being spelled out in
flowers or not. Believe me. Please.Do not try to brighten my sleep for me.
I have angels for that.They do a fine bang up job all on their
own. And they sound just like shaking bells when they are walking towards you. I
ought to know. I've been walking with them for several months now.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Magic Lessons
by Darryl Price
" No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.'--T.S. Eliot
I think,I know,the poem's starting to wear off.
But I'm alive one more day. Need to read more. I
was given these scars you understand to sounds of
fluted out hollowed veins against a perfectly radiant
coming of the ocean to mean something
well almost concrete and immediate, like "Don't
push me out there yet. It's okay. I'll wait for my
tide.Then I'll lift off without any more help from
you, thank you." There's the beauty to it. I don't pretend
to escape rare kindness either. Oh where'd I
put those glasses? You know. The ones I always wear
when I'm not able to see that it's been getting
awfully late.Probably never finish the
song you washed upon my forehead with your long as
the color of the sun wiped sheet of pure and golden
sand combed hair. All's fair I guess. Although it breaks
the door down to my garden without so much as
a polite knock. Sometimes even a small whistle
will do to let someone know you care enough to
visit them in their dreams. It's wearing thin. And I'm
becoming visible again.I need more words
to survive. I'm feeling less and less like turning
the wheel in front of your face to make the colors
collide into a one of a kind mountain of ash
for your amusement. Be all gone. Soon. You'll start to
see raindrops through your windshield. There'll be no other
choice. Certainly there must be something more to us
than conjoint sad notepads. Why do I continue
to conjure from their inky depths to the surface
of the mind floating alphabetical blocks of
heart-shaped burns? No matter. It's just the lack of pure
symbols to the brain speaking in hallucinogenic
tropes.Go sound to sleep silvery moon girl
where we can at least find raw courage to continue
to trill our secret names for each other through
holes in stars and fan the universe with kisses.
We'll find more hills of noise if it kills us.
And if it doesn't we'll be back tomorrow with
our plastic buckets and shovels to begin once
more to build a home for no one. One size fits all.
" No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.'--T.S. Eliot
I think,I know,the poem's starting to wear off.
But I'm alive one more day. Need to read more. I
was given these scars you understand to sounds of
fluted out hollowed veins against a perfectly radiant
coming of the ocean to mean something
well almost concrete and immediate, like "Don't
push me out there yet. It's okay. I'll wait for my
tide.Then I'll lift off without any more help from
you, thank you." There's the beauty to it. I don't pretend
to escape rare kindness either. Oh where'd I
put those glasses? You know. The ones I always wear
when I'm not able to see that it's been getting
awfully late.Probably never finish the
song you washed upon my forehead with your long as
the color of the sun wiped sheet of pure and golden
sand combed hair. All's fair I guess. Although it breaks
the door down to my garden without so much as
a polite knock. Sometimes even a small whistle
will do to let someone know you care enough to
visit them in their dreams. It's wearing thin. And I'm
becoming visible again.I need more words
to survive. I'm feeling less and less like turning
the wheel in front of your face to make the colors
collide into a one of a kind mountain of ash
for your amusement. Be all gone. Soon. You'll start to
see raindrops through your windshield. There'll be no other
choice. Certainly there must be something more to us
than conjoint sad notepads. Why do I continue
to conjure from their inky depths to the surface
of the mind floating alphabetical blocks of
heart-shaped burns? No matter. It's just the lack of pure
symbols to the brain speaking in hallucinogenic
tropes.Go sound to sleep silvery moon girl
where we can at least find raw courage to continue
to trill our secret names for each other through
holes in stars and fan the universe with kisses.
We'll find more hills of noise if it kills us.
And if it doesn't we'll be back tomorrow with
our plastic buckets and shovels to begin once
more to build a home for no one. One size fits all.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Beer Money
Let the Beer Money Tango Begin!
A Play Boxed in Four Poetic Voices
by Darryl Price
At the Blue Corner: 1.
Sleeper Agent Man
They say there are mostly creepy things put away in our DNA
closets that haven't come close to seeing their last phoenix days yet.
We're literally time-bombs set to go off at any minute throughout all
eternity.So what's the use of freaking out?The good part of
our so-called mythological beasties is that they are very deeply embedded in
us by now and make only rare appearances in dreams where it's
child's play to cut them in half and send them back to
sleep between the stardust from whence they came. It's no great secret.
We're physically made from the same explosions in laboratories too cosmic to
remember. They are the memory lanes shone on a rubbery synapse somewhere
in the mystical realms of suspended reason. The bad part is that
they may eventually have a few ideas of their own someday away
from us, sort of like the cute and cuddly robots we currently
keep as pets to watch over our music collections are likely to
do. They'll want to know what an answer feels like. Numbers will
seem like a lie told on the ends of so many puppet
strings, like gutted worms hung out to draw in the fish. What
difference does it make? Choose a fish. Any fish. It's all connected.
What do you do after you catch the fish? What comes after
you eat it? Why?And isn't that the universe in a nut
shell? Where's the holy tree even standing? Where are its roots going?
Into what dimension? I'm just saying. We could be supplying the juice
to the whole thing without even knowing it. But even if that's
true I still would embrace its baffling mystery all because of you.
Rounding the Green Corner: 2.
Dip In The Ocean
Anything can happen to us now and probably already did. I mean how
Are we to know? When you are floating in all this green stuff
You become greenish. Your mind tells you to relax and you want to
Take its advice. But you are no longer in charge of things. You
Rise and fall without asking yourself to. You sink and sputter and sail
On to get a better look at something you all of a sudden
can't name. And fear swims everywhere around you. It takes the shape of
Shadows you can only imagine. But then something else kicks in. A kind
Of resignation to the facts at hand. You simply begin to be part
Of the breadth. Its heart is your heart. Its blood is your blood.
All the life and death in it is all the life in you.
If something grabs my leg now and pulls me under I'm going to
Look it in the eye and sing it a song of whale ghosts.
It's the Mauve Corner table for us: 3.
Worrying About the Bomb
I guess is just my own stupid
way of consuming the
cultural river of junk
along with the rest of us.
Here let me buy you a little
expensive toy,something
we can later dispose of
together.We're never at
any given time without
war. You'd think death wouldn't need
any help from the goofy
likes of us but just look at
the amount of promising
young persons scrambling to the
top of the hill to die for
the certainly setting sun.
Don't they know it will be back
by tomorrow as bright as ever?
Or the tomorrow
after that? Yeah I know it's
not that easy. I have two
brothers who both fought in Vietnam.
One's a hero and one
went crazy. When I asked him
what went wrong he said,”I just
couldn't take seeing one more
blown up kid.” I asked the hero
what he'd learned. He said, “People
are pretty much the same
wherever the world you go.”
Ah, at last, we have the little Red Corner: 4.
The Faun Part
I don't know why I looked at your feet when
I did. They just struck me as something worth looking
at. And then you sort of placed them like a
ballerina in a frozen sculpture of almost unbearable grace. I
don't know if that was for me or not but
I appreciated it. I wanted you to take off your
shoes right then and there and hand them over to
me. What I would do with them once I had
them in my hands I haven't a clue. I think
it's just the grand gesture that I wanted you to
make to keep the momentum between us still going our
way. That and the knowing smile that would surely pass
with it. But then the momentary window slid by like
a suddenly lurching bus and we were once again players
in the ongoing drama of our lives, surrounded by complete
strangers, each one vying for our loosening and falling sands.
A Play Boxed in Four Poetic Voices
by Darryl Price
At the Blue Corner: 1.
Sleeper Agent Man
They say there are mostly creepy things put away in our DNA
closets that haven't come close to seeing their last phoenix days yet.
We're literally time-bombs set to go off at any minute throughout all
eternity.So what's the use of freaking out?The good part of
our so-called mythological beasties is that they are very deeply embedded in
us by now and make only rare appearances in dreams where it's
child's play to cut them in half and send them back to
sleep between the stardust from whence they came. It's no great secret.
We're physically made from the same explosions in laboratories too cosmic to
remember. They are the memory lanes shone on a rubbery synapse somewhere
in the mystical realms of suspended reason. The bad part is that
they may eventually have a few ideas of their own someday away
from us, sort of like the cute and cuddly robots we currently
keep as pets to watch over our music collections are likely to
do. They'll want to know what an answer feels like. Numbers will
seem like a lie told on the ends of so many puppet
strings, like gutted worms hung out to draw in the fish. What
difference does it make? Choose a fish. Any fish. It's all connected.
What do you do after you catch the fish? What comes after
you eat it? Why?And isn't that the universe in a nut
shell? Where's the holy tree even standing? Where are its roots going?
Into what dimension? I'm just saying. We could be supplying the juice
to the whole thing without even knowing it. But even if that's
true I still would embrace its baffling mystery all because of you.
Rounding the Green Corner: 2.
Dip In The Ocean
Anything can happen to us now and probably already did. I mean how
Are we to know? When you are floating in all this green stuff
You become greenish. Your mind tells you to relax and you want to
Take its advice. But you are no longer in charge of things. You
Rise and fall without asking yourself to. You sink and sputter and sail
On to get a better look at something you all of a sudden
can't name. And fear swims everywhere around you. It takes the shape of
Shadows you can only imagine. But then something else kicks in. A kind
Of resignation to the facts at hand. You simply begin to be part
Of the breadth. Its heart is your heart. Its blood is your blood.
All the life and death in it is all the life in you.
If something grabs my leg now and pulls me under I'm going to
Look it in the eye and sing it a song of whale ghosts.
It's the Mauve Corner table for us: 3.
Worrying About the Bomb
I guess is just my own stupid
way of consuming the
cultural river of junk
along with the rest of us.
Here let me buy you a little
expensive toy,something
we can later dispose of
together.We're never at
any given time without
war. You'd think death wouldn't need
any help from the goofy
likes of us but just look at
the amount of promising
young persons scrambling to the
top of the hill to die for
the certainly setting sun.
Don't they know it will be back
by tomorrow as bright as ever?
Or the tomorrow
after that? Yeah I know it's
not that easy. I have two
brothers who both fought in Vietnam.
One's a hero and one
went crazy. When I asked him
what went wrong he said,”I just
couldn't take seeing one more
blown up kid.” I asked the hero
what he'd learned. He said, “People
are pretty much the same
wherever the world you go.”
Ah, at last, we have the little Red Corner: 4.
The Faun Part
I don't know why I looked at your feet when
I did. They just struck me as something worth looking
at. And then you sort of placed them like a
ballerina in a frozen sculpture of almost unbearable grace. I
don't know if that was for me or not but
I appreciated it. I wanted you to take off your
shoes right then and there and hand them over to
me. What I would do with them once I had
them in my hands I haven't a clue. I think
it's just the grand gesture that I wanted you to
make to keep the momentum between us still going our
way. That and the knowing smile that would surely pass
with it. But then the momentary window slid by like
a suddenly lurching bus and we were once again players
in the ongoing drama of our lives, surrounded by complete
strangers, each one vying for our loosening and falling sands.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Bleeding the Words (Practicing My Trees)
by Darryl Price
I know you don’t want to see me bleeding the words together like this, not until the tee- shirt’s fully washed, finished and hung out to dry somewhere. Then it has every lucky chance of flying away on its own powerful flailing arms and becoming someone else’s lost treasure. Just not mine. That’s where the cut’s the most awful,the deepest I think. These new things keep tumbling out of my ears and putting on their oh so long glowing robes and taking their rightful places right behind me—ready to sing the life out
of the most sadly written chorus you’ve ever heard when I give them the cue. I can’t help it if someone strange thinks I can sing. I’ve opened my mouth to speak mountains and gotten clouds, to regurgitate fresh meadows and gotten factories, to moisten the heads of dolphins and gotten sand in a bottle. All these things I lay aside to put before you at some other time because they are failed attempts to say something without pretense. Why does it have to be explained any further than that? If I could I’d tie
them all up in a big blue blanket and fling them at the sopping stars hoping to watch them sink into the black cosmos like the little stones that they are. But we all know that’s impossible. Here’s two reasons. One. Because you are like a petal of exquisite hue that just so happened to fall on my head when I wasn’t looking. Two. And because I don’t believe you are a lie. Maybe I don’t care period. That could explain a few things. Nevertheless we find ourselves at a moment of beauty—it stays between us for as
long as we live and breathe. That I am sure of. But no more. Nothing else makes any sense to me. Nothing that I would invest with a soul. This map then that I place in your hands only works when you look at it—no one else will be able to read it as you do. That is its purpose. To give you alone complete access to its mystery. And if you have not the wellness to discover the center then let it go unexplored. It has been created with you in mind. Why do you think only in terms of people and places? There are
more things going on within the page than wood fibers and pulp. There’s pressure behind the ink to be sure, but that’s not to say there isn’t fire under the boiling water. Wherever you are being you the life knows its rightful heart. I don’t care if there’s proof or not, there’s feeling. We can’t always listen to their selfish, hateful nonsense. Sooner or later it’s goodbye. We have to fly. We have to try. We know we might die. But this old death has already forsaken us. We want more. And we want to be together.
Can you deny us the pleasure forever? This is the history of the world. It happens every day. It happens every minute. It’s happening now. To you. To me. To us. To the blades of grass. Will you really shoot the stalks to pieces? More will grow you know. More will come. In one form or another. They’ll raise their sons and daughters to be poets. When the daylight breaks something new is born even when the weather is at its bleakest. Come. Take my hand. Just for a moment, let us celebrate. Ah, I say, a big yes.
I know you don’t want to see me bleeding the words together like this, not until the tee- shirt’s fully washed, finished and hung out to dry somewhere. Then it has every lucky chance of flying away on its own powerful flailing arms and becoming someone else’s lost treasure. Just not mine. That’s where the cut’s the most awful,the deepest I think. These new things keep tumbling out of my ears and putting on their oh so long glowing robes and taking their rightful places right behind me—ready to sing the life out
of the most sadly written chorus you’ve ever heard when I give them the cue. I can’t help it if someone strange thinks I can sing. I’ve opened my mouth to speak mountains and gotten clouds, to regurgitate fresh meadows and gotten factories, to moisten the heads of dolphins and gotten sand in a bottle. All these things I lay aside to put before you at some other time because they are failed attempts to say something without pretense. Why does it have to be explained any further than that? If I could I’d tie
them all up in a big blue blanket and fling them at the sopping stars hoping to watch them sink into the black cosmos like the little stones that they are. But we all know that’s impossible. Here’s two reasons. One. Because you are like a petal of exquisite hue that just so happened to fall on my head when I wasn’t looking. Two. And because I don’t believe you are a lie. Maybe I don’t care period. That could explain a few things. Nevertheless we find ourselves at a moment of beauty—it stays between us for as
long as we live and breathe. That I am sure of. But no more. Nothing else makes any sense to me. Nothing that I would invest with a soul. This map then that I place in your hands only works when you look at it—no one else will be able to read it as you do. That is its purpose. To give you alone complete access to its mystery. And if you have not the wellness to discover the center then let it go unexplored. It has been created with you in mind. Why do you think only in terms of people and places? There are
more things going on within the page than wood fibers and pulp. There’s pressure behind the ink to be sure, but that’s not to say there isn’t fire under the boiling water. Wherever you are being you the life knows its rightful heart. I don’t care if there’s proof or not, there’s feeling. We can’t always listen to their selfish, hateful nonsense. Sooner or later it’s goodbye. We have to fly. We have to try. We know we might die. But this old death has already forsaken us. We want more. And we want to be together.
Can you deny us the pleasure forever? This is the history of the world. It happens every day. It happens every minute. It’s happening now. To you. To me. To us. To the blades of grass. Will you really shoot the stalks to pieces? More will grow you know. More will come. In one form or another. They’ll raise their sons and daughters to be poets. When the daylight breaks something new is born even when the weather is at its bleakest. Come. Take my hand. Just for a moment, let us celebrate. Ah, I say, a big yes.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
(In This Lifetime We’ve Drawn This) Close
by Darryl Price
Together, this far toward warm
Promise with our sweetest written
Words done as deeds and offered as
Light set amongst shadow to burn
Glad away as full glasses of
Moon water poured freely out of
Love's dearly scruffed up mouth again
And again, that wants always to
Be bearing new forms, to be more
Often than not life's opening
Shot. That we find ourselves there at
All is a welcomed miracle
As common as finding one slick
Wetted cheek among a million
Rained on and yet we feel it; the
Overflow of climbing on top
Of one another ,sentences
In every language all crying
Out,“Spin gold, spin gold, or leave us
Alone forever!” I set the
Beautiful evaporating
Match atop their dry old heads and
Splash the sparks into my own face
With relish for the new verses.
Together, this far toward warm
Promise with our sweetest written
Words done as deeds and offered as
Light set amongst shadow to burn
Glad away as full glasses of
Moon water poured freely out of
Love's dearly scruffed up mouth again
And again, that wants always to
Be bearing new forms, to be more
Often than not life's opening
Shot. That we find ourselves there at
All is a welcomed miracle
As common as finding one slick
Wetted cheek among a million
Rained on and yet we feel it; the
Overflow of climbing on top
Of one another ,sentences
In every language all crying
Out,“Spin gold, spin gold, or leave us
Alone forever!” I set the
Beautiful evaporating
Match atop their dry old heads and
Splash the sparks into my own face
With relish for the new verses.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Long Distance
by Darryl Price
Here's the thing. I never thought you'd
Be swept away from me forever. Some
Grain of you still seems to catch
In my eyes from time to time.
What I'm trying to say is I'm
Sorry that we are no bigger than
flesh. I'd give anything to be in
Your presence without history or seasons having
Been hammered to your heart. I understand
That oceans will continue to live and
Die in our veins, but also clouds
Will rise out of our deeds to
Drench us sooner or later. I want
You to let go of me completely
Now and know that you are loved.
Here's the thing. I never thought you'd
Be swept away from me forever. Some
Grain of you still seems to catch
In my eyes from time to time.
What I'm trying to say is I'm
Sorry that we are no bigger than
flesh. I'd give anything to be in
Your presence without history or seasons having
Been hammered to your heart. I understand
That oceans will continue to live and
Die in our veins, but also clouds
Will rise out of our deeds to
Drench us sooner or later. I want
You to let go of me completely
Now and know that you are loved.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
You Have Always
by Darryl Price
The mirror of
The universe
With the vastness
Of everything
In it staring
Back at you—so
You will never
Be the last one
In my friend. I
Know I’ve thought that
In the past. I
Was wrong. It’s one
Life going off or
Turning on. Let’s
Enjoy seeing
Each other reflecting
Back.
The mirror of
The universe
With the vastness
Of everything
In it staring
Back at you—so
You will never
Be the last one
In my friend. I
Know I’ve thought that
In the past. I
Was wrong. It’s one
Life going off or
Turning on. Let’s
Enjoy seeing
Each other reflecting
Back.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Places Are Spoken Of
by Darryl Price
In leaves this time of year. Another
Language that like every other tongue argues
More existence please with lots of everything
In regular doses--sun and wind and
Rain and room to throw one’s arms
Around each new day, but a deliberate
Emerald will green from within. Greed gets
You acquisitioned next to the wall. Someone
Is bound to have a pair of
Scissors sooner or later with your name
On it. Is this what’s happened to
Me? I exploded over the time with
A beard twined of wild flowers and
Swept the local moths into a volcanic
Disappearance of dust-Like proportions which choked apart
Any chance of making new friends with
The surrounding scenery? Too bad. I couldn’t
Help filling my legs up with all
That fresh pleasure and carrying it back
To the hive of my purest dreams
For later offering to the Muse herself,
An organic moisturizer she might easily dab
On between gigs as a silvery pulsating
Star or the mature breasts of the
Moon goddess. Let us celebrate moments like
These that conquer us so elegantly. Why
Let the circles close in all around
Us when we are made of the
Stuff that keeps strumming into the
Eternal one’s palmed ear canals?
In leaves this time of year. Another
Language that like every other tongue argues
More existence please with lots of everything
In regular doses--sun and wind and
Rain and room to throw one’s arms
Around each new day, but a deliberate
Emerald will green from within. Greed gets
You acquisitioned next to the wall. Someone
Is bound to have a pair of
Scissors sooner or later with your name
On it. Is this what’s happened to
Me? I exploded over the time with
A beard twined of wild flowers and
Swept the local moths into a volcanic
Disappearance of dust-Like proportions which choked apart
Any chance of making new friends with
The surrounding scenery? Too bad. I couldn’t
Help filling my legs up with all
That fresh pleasure and carrying it back
To the hive of my purest dreams
For later offering to the Muse herself,
An organic moisturizer she might easily dab
On between gigs as a silvery pulsating
Star or the mature breasts of the
Moon goddess. Let us celebrate moments like
These that conquer us so elegantly. Why
Let the circles close in all around
Us when we are made of the
Stuff that keeps strumming into the
Eternal one’s palmed ear canals?
Sunday, May 8, 2011
I’m afraid you may have made some
by Darryl Price
awfully evil decisions lately that still could
come back to haunt you,but I'm
here to report your zooming about hair
isn't really one of them. You have
found the infernal wheel works in all
directions at once. Good. It's no use
pretending you aren't being rolled along with
the rest of us to our very
just graves. You have slightly better clothes
on is all. But your petty misery
at your lot in life is the
same old story. Now that we've gotten
that out of the way may we
proceed to enjoy where we have stopped
on this very glad moment? We have
this panoramic lawn which might as well
be a jutting out to sea greenbean
cliff only big enough for the two
of us, a giant lily pad then ,
so big you can't see the wetness
it so easily slides upon beneath us.
Either way we have this terribly blue
eggs in a nest now playing sky
which is currently curled up in front
of your eyes like a small Persion
cat unable or unwilling to move from
that perfect spot of creature comfort. We
have three or four raggedy curious winds
attached to our flag pole playing their
various musical instruments all around us like
circus performers on their way to market.
And finally we have each other's fingers
braiding an unending warmth between us as
we dream together in this finely tuned
golden afternoon. We'll never match this feeling
again with anyone else. So why must
you prance around the fact as if
you have somewhere else to go? Emotional
turmoil should not be your feckless condition.
awfully evil decisions lately that still could
come back to haunt you,but I'm
here to report your zooming about hair
isn't really one of them. You have
found the infernal wheel works in all
directions at once. Good. It's no use
pretending you aren't being rolled along with
the rest of us to our very
just graves. You have slightly better clothes
on is all. But your petty misery
at your lot in life is the
same old story. Now that we've gotten
that out of the way may we
proceed to enjoy where we have stopped
on this very glad moment? We have
this panoramic lawn which might as well
be a jutting out to sea greenbean
cliff only big enough for the two
of us, a giant lily pad then ,
so big you can't see the wetness
it so easily slides upon beneath us.
Either way we have this terribly blue
eggs in a nest now playing sky
which is currently curled up in front
of your eyes like a small Persion
cat unable or unwilling to move from
that perfect spot of creature comfort. We
have three or four raggedy curious winds
attached to our flag pole playing their
various musical instruments all around us like
circus performers on their way to market.
And finally we have each other's fingers
braiding an unending warmth between us as
we dream together in this finely tuned
golden afternoon. We'll never match this feeling
again with anyone else. So why must
you prance around the fact as if
you have somewhere else to go? Emotional
turmoil should not be your feckless condition.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Like Trial and Like Error
by Darryl Price
We sat in a muffled
little line up on the
concrete lips of tomorrow's
sleepy chin like all
good children as the parade
limped by slapping itself
against the young day's
excitement like a damaged
tire trying its best
to remain inflated
in spite of the flatness
on every fact around.
Hungry mice were waiting
in darkly camouflaged
papers like frozen cars
with their headlights on fire.
Another poet I
know might use this unique
opportunity to
also point out their nails
were glowing like sticks of
pink butter. Finally
the fly-overs looked like
a swarm of thrown black knives
heading perhaps towards
a magician's beautiful
assistant strapped to
a giant spinning dart
board like a left behind
party favor. When it
was all gone outside was
suddenly cold again.
We sat in a muffled
little line up on the
concrete lips of tomorrow's
sleepy chin like all
good children as the parade
limped by slapping itself
against the young day's
excitement like a damaged
tire trying its best
to remain inflated
in spite of the flatness
on every fact around.
Hungry mice were waiting
in darkly camouflaged
papers like frozen cars
with their headlights on fire.
Another poet I
know might use this unique
opportunity to
also point out their nails
were glowing like sticks of
pink butter. Finally
the fly-overs looked like
a swarm of thrown black knives
heading perhaps towards
a magician's beautiful
assistant strapped to
a giant spinning dart
board like a left behind
party favor. When it
was all gone outside was
suddenly cold again.
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.
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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