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My Moon's Famously Caught


by Darryl Price


behind your one  

perfectly showcased yet irreplaceable earlobe, like a still 

inflated island-- in order to float

away on any slight rogue gust of

gregarious wind-- seedling tool

kit and so I mistakenly

thought I'd just go right on ahead

and maybe point out that precious  

 

fact to everyone within a

close hearing distance from me for

all eternity. It is your

perfect lake after all that makes

it seem worth noticing anything 

after tonight's illuminating

skies. I know. Pretty dumb

idea in the best of times--

 

because it's supposed to be all

about two being together

right in front of the unknowing

others and somehow living to

tell about it inside each other's

private arms. There is another

love story I can solve. Certain

stars move certain mountains like certain

 

fish move certain seas. This goes

all the way back and forth and in

and out until it may appear

to be pouring itself into

only a single flat space on

time's huge new flatter screen. It may even look like an

ancient statue of an embodiment

of the laughing Buddha boat that

 

isn't (for sure) living out a

real monk's potential earthly life

of waiting until all are cared

for, but it's only taking some

mighty tiny steps towards 

reaching your central nervous system

with its own simple message of cool

kindness. Whatever it is

 

it wants to tell you is probably

already inside your mind. I

know that's a left turn, but listen

to those fabulous grass strung crickets

rub their hairy legs all over

the place like a sliding candlestick

holder for violins and

your bound to get the sleepy world's dancing for love at all costs picture in a

micro mini second of happiness. O


yeah.

 

 

 

Bonus:

 

There is none

 

closer to me now than you.

Don't you breathe that in these  

few words of mine? It's the rarest of moments

we've been waiting for, where

 

our lonely ships finally get to give their last

ragged chances to the

twisting winds that may be and hope

for something glad to go with us, to

 

let loose from the unwillingness

to set sail in the first

place. The tall stories are jutting

out there, all of them, to

 

express the need to travel

and arrive, lifted wave

by broken weeping wave, beyond

their own mythologized

 

adventures into something

much more real, a much sweeter

tasting meaning for all of us. We'll bring them

home if we can. Alright

 

the air does seem to be made

of tiny rolling bells

being blown like grains of sand through

a giant straw. Give the signal. We'll go, we'll go. Here we go then.

 

 

Monroe

 

We don't often get to see the prosthetic wailing child

within the speaker walls blasting her hopeless, beating fists from

inside her breast because there is no actual frame of

reference behind which she is so kindly, patiently waiting for

you to put your tender ear up against, that's just

the shared and foolish illusion of cellular paint anyway, but

everything else was absolutely real and full of water and

bread, that's the tiniest sadder part, she was made like

that, all of that, and left like a stranded beluga

whale waiting for a friendly environmentalist to herd her back

out to open sea, like a sudden attack of light,

meant to as permanently blinded by you as if you were

walking through a dream of nothing more than sunlight after

sunlight, clutching sheer curtains that don't hang so much as

float in your face in the air all around you.

Through these enlarged artifacts she watches you thrash, but she

doesn't get emotional about it, not until later, when she

wants something from you she can't ever have. That's why

you don't get to react for more than a micro

second before she demands your blood be spilled on all

of it, in a cup and a pill. We only

have their utterly charmed faces now, by suddenly either

laughing uncontrollably all the way or gaining in frozen sadness

before suddenly being mysteriously drawn back to awakened life, flopping

back into regular, jerking fast motion again. By this count

can you really believe she wasn't living cautiously with her

hands on the bottom of the pull cord at all awake 

times? She pulled the curtains opened or closed in her

wake at will. She clicked the shutters for them,

like magnetized castanets, with her many-legged golden eyelashes. She

alone parted the waves of days or nights or else

simply let them drown in their wretched sorrows. She couldn't

turn off the mirrors because she was the entire body

of light. There was only one switch. She found it

eventually. Was her finger in the way? Someone must know the truth.

 

 

Band

 

The image left us

feeling so alone. It

wasn't anyone's unhappy 

fault. Exactly. We

had all made it happen together.

It just became

bigger than all of

us being together and

got up on its own one day and walked away from us

 

of its own lumbering

energy.

This surprised us too. How

could it take from us our shadows 

like that and have a

palette of its own without consulting

us? That's when we

had to do the unspeakable move.

We had

 

to track it down to its lair and

take it apart in its sleep again,

leave it in broken pieces,

scatter the portals

of its electrical

firings to

the four cosmic winds. This of

course caused our own demise.

We turned away and quickly into a mythologized salt.

 

 

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