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)
Most employment involves a lot of bathroom cleaning. Which makes me even more thankful that food is so good. Or it can be. Usually.
Is doing the right thing forward-looking? I’m at that point where I can’t tell. It’s kind of a new point. Does anyone else understand? Anything can be too much, of course. And tonight anything’s possible, too.
That Harry Potter. Now we’re at my place for a Bergman flick. The angel on my shoulder is cooking and the devil on my shoulder is depressed. I’m not sure what I can do.
But, yeah, food can be really great. Denzel Washington’s two girls work at Hooters and I could really go for some chicken
If only at first I could have remembered the word clever. Nothing seems to find its way through the fog of exhaustion. Except this swollen ankle I’m getting most evenings (note to self: a] get checked again for diabetes; b] you’re not a hypochondriac except on purpose; like in character).
Your secret handshake has a funny way with words. Too cute. Plus I spent all night translating the Greeks.
To quickly move from one thing to the next. This can be a nice diversion when giving a sermon. Unless repeated too often. It’s a shell game. You can’t lead a man to the right walnut without teaching him how to get there (which requires learning how to forget, right?).
Many things. I threw myself a birthday party Saturday night. Lots of folks danced until 5:30am. Most with various intoxicants. Then hand-in-hand up my hill. Which was the highlight of my walk, if not my late 30s. Or the magic replay in my head says we’re really a couple.
The lovely talk on the sofa makes it a boyfriend collage. These things make a lot of money in the art world of life. And money isn’t the object. I mean it’s not an object. I meant it more like firewood or kindling. The kind that gives you a quick fortuitous heart attack at seventy-one on a winter morning when you’d like to use your fireplace.
What was your crazy sex? Opened the table to draw some work onto it but forgot work. Maybe I was watching it go in late one morning. Watching as it goes in. Some like this trait.
Others are exhibitionists. Still others, boneheads. I watch some porn that does this, but I’ve never done it personally. The rain this morning agrees. Or digresses. Do you want
to try me? Okay, perhaps. But let’s first get beyond the shadows and look square into the now. Did you purchase your magnifying mirror, first? Okay.
I think all buses have beautiful boys (and subways too). I thought I was a loser at first. But in fact I get a few responses. Not just from old men either.
Make a list of the voices to dissipate a headache. Something like counting sheep. Appreciate the dissonance which jogs focus. Logic, as ever, prevails. Just to see the roof of its mouth. Word word peanut butter. But actually better, because hunger dissipates too.
It’s an expired link and you just clicked it. Sour orange juice, too bad.
What happens when you dumb it down like bedsheets. Bad signifier, but you know what I mean. Another list that puts you over the edge? Like I like nonsense only better.
You joke but I once knew someone like you. He mowed a poet with a huge front lawn just to rub noses with all its barbed wire.
Load more guys for distant pleasure? You are double-spaced and blend nicely with your environment. I’ve got to put an end to it. Tease the hole out of the donut while shirking all responsibility.
Lawyers suck but you’ve got it made in the shade. You’re pronounced a- bundance and ease of accomplishment. You also confuse the hell out of me. But I try, my amped-up confidence
and new lab coat. When does it become the importance? Next subject (and the hiccup in between). Love. And reload. Melancholy elsewhere isn’t the right word for it.
A strong hit in the north portion, upper right quadrant. Having a headache for lunch (so last subject). I mean are you schizophrenic? No offense, I promise.
The houseboat dips as the needle edges inward at midnight.
You remind me I’m unfinished. Come very close to calling things off. This childish out of my mouth. It gets to me after I’m reassured glorious, e.g., getting out of Arkansas or finally talking Paris. Who knew it was like this? I mean I can’t remember the bad stuff. Or anything, mostly. So I set up a drink date at my place, playing Cupid (or his lusty little brother). Back to the 28th floor. Back to left- overs and fiasco. Watch one more scary movie for fake horror.
Vienna sausages, Hershey’s kisses with almonds, and sushi. For din- ner. Don’t be complacent, I guess. My mind doesn’t feel the same, says lobster, first time in 4 years, just words. And with chopsticks, no less! So many drinks to balance. Turn on TV for soy sauce commercial. Life gets weird, doesn’t it? Drink a glass of lemon wedge & go to bed.
The word is you’re going through a bad spell. I love you in the kitchen but I’m jealous of the kitchen. Drop a book somewhere in between us, like halfway. Make a noise in there. Scratch or cluck, scrape a broad brush over the canvas—a loud stroke.
I found paint supplies in most of the kitchen cabinets. Ease cock, the color of tongue, onto the balance. Hair drifts apart but finds its thing. All is inevitable. Or that’s what the kitchen thinks. I repeat a beer to my brain, endless. It’s water with
a slice of lemon. Eases butter as it melts. Dip an oar into the cool creek. Like that.
