miscreantpress

Song to a Plum
"In my life, I love you more." John Lennon/The Beatles
We were never really rolling in the 
same Chinese dragon bowl together, but 
our heart bag was just big enough for two. 
I loved that. Chocolate is such a good 
peace maker among friends. Don't you think? I 
mean, it's the cake that brings out all the sharp 
knives. However, we could use them to cut 
ourselves a large enough hole in the back,
when no one is watching, and escape out 
to the night, which is just another black 
bag. Potentially, to square one again. 
If we were in the same blue bowl, it was 
more like some kind of scattered light from a 
nearby window pane capturing sunset 
than a little fire started from a dream 
spark. I saw your instantaneous speed, 
like a landscape from a slow moving train, 
skating on by. Go out of frame. I've spent 
my whole life painting different clouds, in 
search for the right sky, ever since, on all 
the ceilings of my life. It's the least I 
can do. That's what Rembrandt taught me. You can't 
return to anywhere, but you can be 
mentally present and accounted for 
by your actions in the now seat. That way, 
you can also see into all things, back 
and forth, like with deliberate brush strokes, 
finding exactly what you are looking 
for still being itself in the not so 
lost after all moment. That bag's always 
sitting there, where you and I left it. Some 
people might go mad looking inside it 
much too eagerly. Others get mad at
deciding if it's worth the bother. For 
me, I like the realness of it domain, 
just as it is, without putting too much 
false hope into where its portal lives. Does 
it really matter if it is endless eyes or 
a kissable mouth you are drawn into? 
You can't suck the wisdom out of its wound, 
but you can kick the knowledge of it on 
down the road with your travels--but only 
if you are not already carrying 
enough heavy bags with you . You've still got 
to be steady on your feet, my friend, eh?
Song to a Plum by Darryl Price
"In my life, I love you more." John Lennon/The Beatles
We were never really rolling in the 
same Chinese dragon bowl together, but 
our heart bag was just big enough for two. 
I loved that. Chocolate is such a good 
peace maker among friends. Don't you think? I 
mean, it's the cake that brings out all the sharp 
knives. However, we could use them to cut 
ourselves a large enough hole in the back,
when no one is watching, and escape out 
to the night, which is just another black 
bag. Potentially, to square one again. 
If we were in the same blue bowl, it was 
more like some kind of scattered light from a 
nearby window pane capturing sunset 
than a little fire started from a dream 
spark. I saw your instantaneous speed, 
like a landscape from a slow moving train, 
skating on by. Go out of frame. I've spent 
my whole life painting different clouds, in 
search for the right sky, ever since, on all 
the ceilings of my life. It's the least I 
can do. That's what Rembrandt taught me. You can't 
return to anywhere, but you can be 
mentally present and accounted for 
by your actions in the now seat. That way, 
you can also see into all things, back 
and forth, like with deliberate brush strokes, 
finding exactly what you are looking 
for still being itself in the not so 
lost after all moment. That bag's always 
sitting there, where you and I left it. Some 
people might go mad looking inside it 
much too eagerly. Others get mad at
deciding if it's worth the bother. For 
me, I like the realness of it domain, 
just as it is, without putting too much 
false hope into where its portal lives. Does 
it really matter if it is endless eyes or 
a kissable mouth you are drawn into? 
You can't suck the wisdom out of its wound, 
but you can kick the knowledge of it on 
down the road with your travels--but only 
if you are not already carrying 
enough heavy bags with you . You've still got 
to be steady on your feet, my friend, eh?
 To Cry You a Bird 
The table is the first thing to be set, but 
the stage is always being dismantled, by some Joe with 
no remorse for the carpentry involved, in that particular sorrow. 
He's always standing in the wings, with his cardboard box 
in his hands, waiting to sweep the place clean, the 
silent moment you exit. Time for something new to start 
the next chapter. Immediately, if possible. You can join in 
or you can bloody well fade away. Being on the 
lonely outskirts of newly happening towns is no summer picnic. 
It only causes your own forgotten parts of a dream 
to glow again, for a lost moment, in muted recognition; 
nothing stays the same. It doesn't matter how much love 
you added to it in your eight days of heaven 
or hell. It has used up all of itself in 
return. At least you gave it some of your own 
motion. At least you made it move toward the freedom 
of silvery dancing in the alive moonlight. I know how 
much it took out of you. We all do. There's 
only one thing that can come alive now, in that 
same way, just not in that same room. Don't cry 
for birds. They get to fly, whatever else befalls them. 
You and I get to be ourselves, if we can 
find ourselves, amongst all the modern wreckage. It all ends
 
up in the same warehouse, after coming off the same 
barges, to be unceremoniously dumped into the same mountainous hole 
full of cracked, broken and used stars. Even the ones 
who remember your name won't want to carry that burden 
forever. You've got to be the one to say your 
own full name, to the whole damned, indifferent universe, and 
mean it for as long as you can muster a 
somewhat steady, whistled tune. It's not a prayer. Don't bring 
that nonsense into it. It's a declaration of independence, a 
self-proclamation of being alive, no matter what dimension you find 
yourself inhabiting, before the big red balloon pops, and spoils 
all the fun and misery of life itself. Solving the 
mystery doesn't solve anything. It only makes 
it go that
much longer. The mystery of the mystery's like an onion. 
It will make you cry, if you don't chew some 
long lasting gum in the process. Turns out, the answer 
is whatever it wants to be, because it's all in 
your head. So choose wisely. Be mighty. Birds have very 
little to do with it. They are the representatives of 
just one simple, and at the same time, grand 
possibility. 
One unsure outcome among many mundane ways to get home 
again to the place where you will always belong. You 
can never go far enough away from yourself 
to forget 
to remember the human folly, but you might, to forgive 
yourself for being curious of the obvious dangers so often. 
We aren't the angels. We are the people. We made 
beautiful music out of stones and storms. 
That's our story.
Robins in Your Hair 
Don't cry. It's only me. Even if you remember me, 
when I'm gone, you won't miss me. And that's when 
everything falls. Where everything fails. For me. If it's at 
all possible, I will still love you. That's the master 
plan. Don't cry. It's only me. But. 
Show me how it 
is so easily done. This documentary as betrayal gets done, 
but no one ever gets saved in the end. Oh. 
Don't cry. It's only me. And you don't understand. Don't 
cry. It's only me. Who got close enough? Was killed? 
You messed him up, him as much as any other 
pretend person. A savage snake bite is a savage snake 
bite. Please. Don't look away. Don't cry. It's only me. 
Is that a colander on your head? Is that a 
Victorian lampshade on your head? Is that a purple ribbon 
innocently placed in your waving hair? 
Don't cry. It's only 
me. We're living badly in a beautiful world. And we 
are not alone here. All the sad-eyed angels come, but 
they don't do much more than sing. And swing. And 
jot down notes in heavenly tomes. Don't cry. It's still 
only me. Don't bind me. I want to be free. 
So don't cry. It's only me. No more muttering about 
nefarious ghosts underneath your hollow breath. The thieves don't like 
it. They'll hear you. And you know what that means. 
Don't cry. It's only me. I'm still here. I'm awake 
with you now. Don't cry. It's only me. And I 
absolutely know where all the hidden words are being kept alive. 
Wounds are fast asleep. But we will have to get 
over our fear of spiders. Watch your wings around their 
sticky minds. Their fangs will suck you dry.  Don't cry. 
It's only me. I am not a lone stranger. And 
really I don't want them anywhere near me. Or you. 
That perfectly fitted smile is not going to play well 
on this misadventure. Probably. There are cutthroats in the bushes. 
There are pirates in the ticket lines. Rainy days ahead 
means lots of mud. If I'm not mistaken. 
Don't cry. 
It's only me. Someone you used to play with. A 
lot. I know that pitiful look. If I am made of 
puppet wood then so are you made of puppet wood. 
Don't carry on. It's only me. There's just no stopping 
us now. Don't don't don't cry cry cry. 
It's only 
me. We all get bombed. Do you know what I'm 
trying to say? I do not know which of us 
has written a worse line before. Don't you cry. It's 
me. Things are going off in all directions. Moths are not 
butterfly opposites. We need the whole forest 
to breathe. 
The experience 
The cave wasn't much better, it was just 
different. There were more wild animals then.  
All of them far more dangerous than grand.  
Definitely more ancient, living tree 
families. It should come as no surprise 
that some of them gained wide wisdom from their life 
experiences. There were sentient 
forests everywhere. Yet everything has 
a shining spirit inside that drives them 
to exist. One more day. Now we have tall
buildings to hide us away in, but still 
want the most windows we can get. There may 
be other monsters. We'll see them coming 
down the street. We'll take the stairs. They go all 
the way down. But that's not how things work, is 
it? Modern day monsters all breathe gas fire. 
They eat buildings for breakfast. They poop out 
horrible exploding  bombs. But even 
if they are still here, so are we. We made
it this far with and without them. We are 
never helpless forever. We are the 
people who invented much needed hope. 
We can paint, draw or dance incredible 
beauty from within our dreams, just as much as from 
solid memory. We make heavenly 
musics with our hands and our minds working 
together. Our power is we didn't 
invent joy, but we certainly know how 
and where to find it, to recognize it, 
and to appreciate it within our 
own hearts. At least, where to begin looking. 
All the best places. We share certain truths 
as last lights that will not be denied; especially 
since they can be caught up in 
the ever changing, swirling circus of 
material things always going around 
and around. Every time you look deeply 
though, those amazing grail like things are still 
right there. Front and center. Untouched. Unfazed. 
Unpolluted, available, real love. 
---
Darryl Price has published dozens 
of limited edition chapbooks, 
and his poems have appeared in many journals. 
He is the author of The Tiger Who 
Jumped  Over the Moon(Truth Serum Press/
Australia/2022) and The Ferocious Silence      
(the Other Press/NYC.)