over two decades in the making.
a timeshifting autobiographical poetry collage w/photography.
a diaristic, nearly "daily writing" (ad)venture.
new pieces are posted most days..
**new and in progress** --
recordings of each poem are being added.
these are read by the author & posted to each poem's page.
--Del Ray Cross (contact delraycross at gmail)
Woke up from this dream I’ve tried a million times: How I spent my summer autumn vacation sitting inside my teacup turned on by a French song from years back.
“Sesame bagel cream cheese and butter!” Oh now I remember. We talked walked around saw Sean Penn. He’d been telling me online he’d been thinking of coming to Boston for a short vacation.
A short vacation. Let’s go to France and get turned on! And he did. It turned out to be the most memorable thing I’ve never done.
Now from accordians to fiddles. We watch the first movie and begin smooching in the middle of the second. Then we climb down a mountain to see a waterfall. So unFrenchlike. We see the pretty leaves.
Come back home on Sunday night. Dance and kiss. I guess this will be... I guess this will be at least someone who makes me want him home. Come back before I forget!
I cried and I cried through the movie. No, really! All day date. Beautiful Sunday. I cried. I couldn’t stop. This doesn’t happen. Now with headphones on my head I am crying. A new CD, faux Christmas. No lights. No hurdles. I cry on the couch waiting to hear Smashmouth. Balloons, confetti, giftwrap, I am crying. The cat’s new torturer. Oh yeah, life goes on. Even after a wet day. Get drunk, meet someone who gets mad because I don’t like him more than I like him. I’m crying, eating Chinese food, all by myself, 2am. Oh, on Tuesday night I got stoned. My cellphone is so quiet, I am crying, reading a novel, trying to sleep, chilled, go to Dogwood, come back home, cry, sit on my roof, walk up and down the hill, get more depressed, fall in love again, can’t shake it, look at my life, push him out, but it’s a beautiful day, a beautiful day. I don’t even have his new number. I cry some more.
I am out of ideas. The customers shout “I’m here in New York City!” This is Bronx-like, directly outside the corner of Frank’s; old classmate, he no poet. The
Christmas eyes look blearily up at the rain. What, no rain? Adrenalin is therefore pumped. I’m just damned excited. Book after book is shit: Shit: suave lies, cringing billboards.
Now I’m at Fenwick’s grabbing a burger. I used to eat burgers. Nothing is more ridiculous than my first vacation since 1997. Four targets: one funky hat, children’s questions, potato chips,
earthquakes. I invited him over for the season premiere. He accepted. I shake him when he’s almost fallen. Pretends to fall. More than a decade mellow. Me has been. Him passionate, aggressive; reminds me of the boundaries I haven’t crossed in years.
Dixie Kitchen. I vowed I’d come back here Saturday for dessert. fog and cold enough to say it’s cold and foggy. hot toddy. he seems to be in a pickle. I’d rather just sting myself. I got the messenger to work. not it’s some sort of hot Christmas, going to New York for the vicious circle. I’ll sit in the steam room, the sauna, the steam room. drink Cajun coffee. a weekend of absolute zero. the red button is a hit. I’m not sick but I play one on teevee. it’s enough to make one want to drive a thirty-year-old good-for-nothing. this will be the year of the book. more fog. pecan pie.
September. Fog / Xmas tree. Where in the hell? On a train! DVDs drop Plop Into a dull metal box. Oh God (Blockbuster) I’m cold! Julie Delpy sings (inside a laptop)! I used to be...? But am...? Some slimy Corporate decor. October. November. December.
whatever I am is not just that I’ve inched silently toward you and/or whether I am gonna get a haircut today and/or what I breathe in of your hair (be it long short black or blond) nor the 23¢ stamp on the Japanese postcard of a dog named Guston who pants at the Living Center (the dog is also reading) and/or this warm development next to Saks at 11:46am on a rainy Wednesday (it wants to wish you a Merry Christmas) nor the complete isolation of LACK OF COMMUNICATION nor merely the mesh of empty commuter rail tracks nor merely a kiss
because if it is simply for myself why would anybody else want it two pigeons dancing on a rooftop anything to get to me like last night’s water drip drip out of a Sunday depression a drip drip
this morning I can’t sleepwalk the Emerald Necklace get up watch tv read a few pages (two old sots reacquainting themselves) stare at the ceiling
I found the rose garden from Switzerland how to get it back
a pleasant trip back into bed 10:30 ball up into a loose fist left hand press lightly against the top of his hip fall asleep
a. ice polar morning Christmas elements flut-flutter like Macy’s redblue flag the black rooster on the yellow t-shirt’s gingerbread volcano
b. if you listen creatively I can erase Rednose like blug blug blug like lip movements in the shower of memory an orchid morning of cell splutter
c. the telephone call about SUV laughter too much babiesbutter on the pancakes too much too much this is before the birth of Starbucks and total body shutdown
filch the fair wind seven days til famine and I move my place having the good walk on nails toward the end of famine a stressful workweek he lost his job a flair of buttonloop just the way of inserting a brand new jump framing joblessness jumping back into a great love my life of travel to room with me the torture of birthdays and famine I believe those deaths tips of islands those foreign currents sort of parched in the shower of lunch a quest for mint a jealousy that brings rich famine to dance for fun and music I walk up just to laugh at you or with you not to joke and just mean it 150%
this metropolis. what i have. is foglifted before eleven. is fog. is didn’t lift til around eleven. my arms around the physics. is swiftly walking in the fog, brushing your hand. brushing your hand swiftly. is fog didn’t lift. i lost a little. a little arm in love eleven days. first time in a long stretch. it is lifted in me. lifted. didn’t lift. mostly lifted. the best ever. is this little metropolis. or of last night a darker little metropolis. a warmer than the day. i am inside. a night warmer than day. under a bridge. crumbling again. not so swiftly. i am holding your hand swiftly. single file through the construction. crumbling. no fog. block by block, holding your hand. warmest is. warmest ever night. warmer than the day. i am next morning waking up next to you. i am next. next morning. is showering with you. is scrubbing. with mint shampoo. my little metropolis. this fog. this didn’t lift. i love this fog. i love this fog of you. i am. this fog in me. i love what happens in my heart with the fog and without it. everytime and everywhere, brushing your hand, crumbling, handholding, swiftly, slowly, under a bridge, day or night. now it’s noon. something sweet. is something. is gone. was fog. fog’s gone. was brushing your hand. this crumbling fog.
now let me take the time to absorb it. my reconciliation and more. a sogged roof. instant messages, quickening my decision to call in sick, my moving forward or sideways; mouthing up to the raindrops. there’s a whole lot to swallow. what remains is obviously the most important. to find it somewhere in the bins, the boxes i’ve yet to unpack. take everything simply as it comes to me. the cleanest of all rain showers cleansing the rooftops, the sidewalks, the rusted pipes and the escape ladders. do i walk out the doorway?
