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)
...but, um, I, there’s also an idea that if you have a good poet almost everything he says is interesting in some way, at least, you know, in the sense of life’s work, you know, everything you write is one huge poem in some weird sense. I kind of like that idea better. —Jack Collom (during an “interview” with Reed Bye)
It’s all too-natural to deflate natural geometry via anthropocentric suckage. —Jack Collum
It is 11am. Not 9:30am. I am thinking of an itch between 1 and 10. This day (disdain) is never approri- ate enough. I wanna start again. The shower. The grey clouds in my bowl of breakfast. Lying in bed. The cat’s en- ergy. This day is reel- ing through a drought of street signs; signs and stoplights, an historic- al treasure.
I had scrambled eggs mixed with a microwavable vegan frozen Indian entree for breakfast less than one hour ago. While taking the vegan tikka box from the freezer, I grabbed the cold brick that is what remains of the soup chicken. Maybe I’m a hypochondriac, or maybe I’m not a hypochondriac, but it pleased me to the edge of giddy when you dropped by after working all day just to make me a homemade bowl of chicken soup. I’d had the sniffles all day long and would communicate only via complaints about coming down with a cold and all of its inconveniences. “The way to a man’s heart...” knowingly proclaims everybody’s mother, including my own, whose apple and pecan pies were absolutely bar none. But I catch myself standing with this brick of a chicken in my hand and a stupid grin on my face for a while, remem- bering that, when I was a kid, whenever I’d have a bit of fever, a cough, or a scratchy throat, Mom’s solution, without fail, was a can of Campbell’s con- densed chicken noodle soup, an iced-over cup of 7-Up,
A little voice inside my head said: “Don’t look back, you can never look back” —Don Henley (from Boys of Summer)
Among the several grocery items that he brought home last night was a bottle of olive oil, which, when I saw in the kitchen this morning gave me the distinct imp- ression that it was saying “Good morn- ing!” and waving directly to me.
Organic birds chop the morning into seven after- noons. No colors, just charcoal. Famous last words reduce life to sediment. I would be dead were it not for telekinesis. I draw the blinds and there you are wearing a lampshade for a helmet. It’s a thousand wonders I ever noticed the hippo on the road
Among the several grocery items that he brought home last night was a bottle of olive oil, which, when I saw in the kitchen this morning gave me the distinct imp- ression that it was saying “Good morning!” and waving directly
Apathetic Undignified Walking home Pissed is so Uncute I pass at begin At the beginning But here I sit Next to Sleeping Beauty Drawing Energy From death And the Dreams That Aren’t Even half My own
Is it dirty does it look dirty that’s what you think of in the city —Frank O’Hara
Drawing of Damir divulging. Everybody disagrees but me. Not half possible. I take a third of one of the two beds. Only the two of us, fighting that beautiful fight (sleep being “top priority” vs. “complete waste of time”).....
After the which (those damned shooters!) I’m about to order another one. So, after a somersault (what a lovely thing to do!) these silly little ditties. Including a graphic depiction of a bottle of olive oil.
Yes, as always, it’s saying “Hello!” and “Good morning!”
Don’t make your day into a parade (what a spectacle!), unless, of course, you love the spectacular. A plan might be nice (for extra spice), but a plan requires time, and I don’t even know what day today is. Did anyone see that coming?, I wonder. Does anyone see that in me? .... Ah, but it’s all so very stupid: my niche isn’t yours. And that’s perfect- ion. But what is your niche (or mine, for that matter)? And more to the point, What’s passion without a niche? And I'm guessing that you’re thinking, What’s a niche without passion? At which all, itchy, I simply collapse. Old Man Sorrow, sings Nina Simone. And she’s completely right, of course!
...but, um, I, there’s also an idea that if you have a good poet almost everything he says is interesting in some way, at least, you know, in the sense of life’s work, you know, everything you write is one huge poem in some weird sense. I kind of like that idea better. —Jack Collom (during an “interview” with Reed Bye)
Now that I have written the hundred thousand lines you never asked for, shall I:
a) perform them all for you, right now, from beginning to end;
b) expire; or
c) dutifully retreat back into the Dog of Job?
Please kindly respond within five seconds (unless you’d like to witness my attempt at choices
But do call. I won’t answer, though. Sorry, unlikely. I am looking to do so soon, how- ever. Maybe. So do! This really gets me there. Sure, it’s no Poetics, more at gotta hafta, more at wrap up tightest ever and get out the door. I’m digging a tunnel to Herzog this evening (yes, as in Werner), an immediate celibate date (an inter-[Im] mediate celebrate date).
(Hello, you’re not here, I’m not here, what a wonderful cinematic ex- perience!)?
And that’s a wrap! And no, it’s not such a bad feeling, like, say a mule at the office all morning: a version of the walk of shame that hints intermittently at ROAD CONSTRUCTION AHEAD. Such jobs, blow by blow, occasionally (and always unexpectedly) throw in a wrench of nostalgia that stinks like hell (and is free of charge, of course).
Oh, break- dancing mule, what comes next? I pause to steady the burden, breath- less, in sudden wonder.
