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)
Dancing on love really stomping it into the ground. It’s not another lazy dance. Din of the bathroom stall, fiercely and for all history overwhelms its magic mirror twenty years ago, some kind of crazy heaven in my ears. For better or worse, I’ll throw it away before therapy (like eggtoss & tug of war). Having a senseless crush on him for years, this isn’t going to be a minor disturbance. It was even better than anything that’s crept into my prolific fantasies and wallops my first attempt at power-dating into insignificance.
“My finger keeps wanting to go inside of my nose what should I do?” “You’re making fun of my poetry by mocking me showing me how I never say anything at all aren’t you?”
“You didn’t use Google at all for this one did you?” Clarity is the archnemesis of Triumph.
“Jack of All Bats, are you tired of being tired?” An accomplished sense of humor and pilgrimages to Fallingwater. Therapy Session Number Four. He just turned 19. The jasmine tea is good, but a bit too hot, and my appointment is in 18 minutes. “Are you sure it’s not a grasshopper with a little piece of dandelion fluff stuck in its eye?” Lonely is relative.
To sponge is to bludge. In which OMG has no oomph, becomes flat like West Texas. In bed with a coin, the thunderstorm makes air out of air and we breathe sex into sleep faster. Bludgeon the coins spun from sponges.
Indistinguishable noise. Critical reception was mediocre and verged on political even though he was not trying to be political. Fuck work all hail poetry, etc.
Right now achy, stuffy, coughy, sore throaty, sitting at Peet’s in Laurel Heights thinking about last night’s thunderstorms around 4am I think.
In bed with transition. Something squeezable yet reduced to a pulp, great fun, hugs, I should have loved you more. How come
when history begins it’s just not clear? Kick yourself.
I get so many submissions I simply cannot keep up. Sometimes I wonder exactly what I am doing on Facebook. After baking salmon and making a light salad his presence really fucked me over and he was following me around trying to get my attention. OK.
Should my lips shout revolution my mask would be complete. “And what a waste,” you’d say, if only for the birds flying around like cows stressing everybody out. Do you want to take a quick look at the week’s squabble, Donald? The cukes are gassy.
Yellow blobs appear on each page, smudges that float up and down over the words, the words which, when read, are the sparrows singing, the sparrows, tucked in the lethargic eucalypts. I spend so many hours trying to crack the secret code. What is it on my desk that sounds like eggs hard-boiling? What is the cat after? Not the words or the birds (this time) but something utterly engaging like a drycleaning stub or a piece of kitty litter. More to the point, what am I after? A more slaphappy morass? Perhaps. An albeit familiar goal, a place I’m good at getting. So here we are. A full moon passes over Geneva and I’m caught in the gunk of the moment. Darker gunk than I’m used to, though. Gunk that could use a little bit of your moon which, while often swollen and always inviting, is dim enough to avoid any collusion.
Hangs a little to the right without trying to bombard your senses. Feels a bit like fish and chips, inspiration for an Elephant and Castle poem with its hair on fire. Something on cherrywood with MasterCard, disrupting the world as we know it. Rain after years without it.
The idea that we’re communicating is a joke. You okay with unorthodox humor? I dream warm with addiction, how it creeps into dreams keeping things substandard. Like your bank allotment.
I’ve no idea, hot dudes. But literally, advertising NEW LASER and MORE RESTROOMS is totally insane and sexy. He’s got nice hands, very at ease and comfy to be around. Now it’s
Monday, that’s the round-up, sending off heartfelt notes to yesterday. Back in Quito. Bye for now.
I’ve been smiling a lot lately. You’re not bothered by this? “This monastery is one of several perched on towering monoliths of solid rock.” Attend a benefit for security bars (for their windows?) then wander around the Castro with someone who graduated in math (“I like art I don’t have to THINK about.”) – turns into a 24 hour date. Where have you been, lately? He’s got nice hands, mildly corporate, snuggly, and comfortable to be around. Oops, someone’s having size problems. Maybe it’s Enrique Iglesias. I’ll forget him in another week, perhaps at Sunday’s Australian barbecue.
Do you have the gut to take me home? You don’t really think that, do you? G-U-T gut. Don’t swing your teeth at me like that you might cause a hurricane.
Welcome to the North Texas Church of Freethought where we’re overwhelmed and underwhelmed. Or did I just overthink it? Was it a mistake, my everything up until now? A too sparse on the details mistake, yes.
The mercury of universal flesh drips eloquently down the side of a mirror. You are somewhere in the midst of ultimate comfort when you notice it. You report it as spam. At first. But it keeps dripping, reappears, moves you to new dimensions, seizes the day, takes you on a picnic and buries the evidence. Everything’s useless, even if we catch some body parts. And I don’t like my new friends. We’re too ashamed to show them off. Is it our inability to fall? Way down in my gut I think about yesterday and that’s when it always happens. Not simply the airplane back to nowhere. Just overwhelmed with complicated and glistening matter.
I’ve a pain in my elbow joint like I did in Hong Kong only this time it’s the other elbow. Or walking the streets of Paris after one a.m. looking for an open pharmacy (to no avail). Something was open, the word kept arriving, but it couldn’t be found. Creativity obdures, it cannot be helped. Old remedies become sterile. Exactly. Dip dry fingers into warm wax and apply each pink feather and quick. No one knows why we come back to evasion. At some point it becomes the weekend but who has the chops for it? Happy Independence Day. I’m not ready to talk about it but I might be dancing in Ecuador come autumn.
Who are we to become more and more about less and less? July 1. Twice daily or weekly to be more substantive? Fuck energy. Art is held high by the word and only the word. We see it when we look out the window at the horny dove or the black rooftops; a barbecue in Oakland; a row of friends at the table who will remain friends for many years to come (but who knew?). Substantive? I need a date. Take me to the Pink Party, take half a hit, wander around with Joe who eats firewood, meet [list of names], go to [name] where [name] is and also [name] was there. WILD. Dance most of the night waiting for the substitute.
I can kind of feel my brain coming back like at the end of a _________, the fog dissipating, four lines to a swipe. Separately, I don’t really feel comfortable downplaying a financially shitty existence. And by ass I mean wide motherfuckin’ ass.
