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.
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