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)
Haven’t we all felt the disappointment of watching the movie version of a novel we absolutely adored? Perhaps only until you see
the film? Or maybe you adored the novel even more afterward? I can tell you that the anti- dote—or perhaps the reverse effect—is read- ing a written adaptation of a movie that was never anything written in the first place (besides a screenplay, I assume). Let’s take Tron, for example. Or, better yet, let’s actually forget I mentioned that.
Is this why I dislike poetry readings so often? Granted, they are mostly just, at least the rare events I actually at- tend these days, social events. And, let’s just face it, poets make the most socially awkward groups that I have encountered in any setting. Math squadrons, perhaps? Chemistry nerds? I suppose there are a lot of anti-social folks out there trying their best, I should not let myself get too carried away here.
But let’s just say that you happen to be one of us: i.e., a member of the poetry team. Or that extra-rare admirer from a non-poet who neverthe-
less chooses to hang with our team. And, let’s say
you have a favorite poem by—let’s make this perfectly easy to grasp—a personal favorite living poet. And you get all ready one evening or weekend after- noon to attend the reading of this hero of yours, and right off the bat the hero poet begins to read your absolute favorite piece of theirs in the most ho-hum, hum-drum manner. Or perhaps
even worse, reads it in that trite way many poets read their own poems when standing in front of the few of us who get ourselves togeth- er just to attend such things. It might be a game-
changer, am I right? My most...modern... example, or at least one that I am comfortable enough to re- lay, is contrasting a performance or a studio re- lease by Kanye West to the daily ding-bat non- sense that erupts from the same mouth from which that musical/rap sublimity apparently emits. It leaves me confounded; dumbfounded; worrying about his sanity and if whoever raised him is actually bearing witness to this (if so, the poor dear(s)!). With him, I can usually ignore the non- stop barrage of crap given the fact that I can listen to the albums in my own home. But this is a con- undrum I ponder quite often (too often, I am sure most would say). Or, sometimes—and this too, I know, seems quite debatable—but what about the similar phenomenon that can occur in the same general neighborhood as heroes who have penned some of the greatest novels or poetry or emitted some of the best rap or vocal bravura or performed some of the greatest on-screen or off-screen perfor- mances to date. Be it my opinion or yours in such cases, surely it gives one pause.
But mostly it makes me want to jump out of my seat and drag the reader off the stage (or at least away from any podium or micro- phone), pick up that which, now in mass- produced print, was once penned by this dodo, and read the damned thing myself. The way it was actually meant to be read, of course.
My ass is not an accessorary (What?) Yeah, I said, accessorary... —from Tempo, performed by Lizzo and Missy Elliott
Wouldn’t it be nice to have no rules? To do whatever you want with language? Well, folks, I say call yourself a poet (as I do) and freedom is yours! You, too, can relish in freedom every time you put pen to paper. Today, for me, it is purple neon, and that is for real, too. But yours can be any color or just about any medium your heart desires. Even virtual, kids. So kudos to Lizzo and to the Queen. As I’ve said before, and many a time, rap is where it’s at (poetry, freedom and imagination, that is), and as one who fancies himself a rapper on paper (as opposed, I suppose, as a wrapper of paper), each day these days (and especially these days) I understand anew what freedom means to me, and might even mean to you, be it presently or in some soon or distant future. I used to say that I was only the reporter, that I only presented the news, but now I prefer to say (or believe) that I offer an alternative, if for no other reason than the fact that the daily bombardment of events transpiring in this world often come at us as if in search of a coronary implosion. So, as for the matter of breaking a few rules, whether they be literary or literal, it does supply an alternative of some sort to this kind of 21st century flipping through the channels around (only not just at eight in the morn- ing and six and ten in the evening and night), among the trio of fam- iliar (and even familial) news- heads. No, in truth, this act is one that gives me a great amount of joy and at least a nice enough recuperation from the normally incessant bar- rage of baloney that we are fed at all hours of the day and night. Alas, reality, however, is always here! I like to think I am an honest guy (perhaps overly so); and in any case I am fairly straight up and try my best to be overtly clear. That has been my rather unflinching rule of thumb for, well, years. But, my dears, to just steer clear for a smidge of time, to take a metaphorical (or real) paintbrush—and, in ess- ence—make what- ever creative advantage you can concoct over that what is. So that you may rule for just a few moments over whatever happens to be the often dreary actual and factual events trans- piring near and far that’d otherwise be causing at least a headache if not nausea and uncontrol- lable spasms of deep muscles, etc. I say attempt to bring your- self up by knocking that down and, instead, create something of (and on) your own. It very well may not only bring you just a bit of help to at least with- stand a dozen or so en- suing actual and factual calamities. Not that I am suggesting that we all go off the deep end together. After all, I am only here to report, and that is what I shall continue to do until I succumb to the battle of truth’s bitter pill. No need to quote me on that. It is just a suggestion. Now, do carry on, and thank you for being my momentary ambulance and possibly my unmitigated recuperation.
And you are old and deep and cold and like a cheap hotel of sleep corridors and whisperings. —Jack Spicer
I’m not feeling so tawdry tonight but I would love a date with the Pacific. A date with an ocean seems suddenly and
terribly desperate, but I suppose it could fairly easily be surmised that I am. Desperate. But yet I don’t think I am. Usually
anyway. I really would love to date. Am ready to. Maybe I even have something in the works. But reading a blurb that pops up in my
phone just now, “Just when you think Trump can’t sink any lower,”, says the phone, so to speak, “he does.” And of course he does. So I begin to wonder why even
to bother with this love thing. “It’s aready a recipe for disaster,” I say to my phone? To myself? In the end it’s all just a realy dumb conundrum, anyway. Right?
But...but...if there ever was a time when one (I) needed someone to grab by both hands, pull him toward me, look directly into his eyes and scream “THIS. CANNOT. BE. HAPPENING!!??”
...well, that time would surely be now. What a time to remain in what has surely become, by now, mostly just a self-imposed bubble, my box, my little room in the city. Isn’t that
what love is, after all? Of course it is. Per- haps among a multitude of other things. And now these mullings have me missing it. The comfort. The comfort a cat cannot give, for
example, or just to discern. I mean, you can yell at an animal for days until it gets all silly cross-eyed at you, but still who does it come to for food. Nevertheless, this would have
to be torture for a cat. What would she care what my phone is telling me about this guy, this president, and this unbelievably lower that he can go. But to another human, with
the electricity moving between the palms of each of your hands into the palms of each of the others’ and vice versa, as that rare and seemingly inappropriate scream gets
shouted directly into the other’s face. Until. The relief. That someone understands. And can let it go in that fundamental, if not primal, way. Sure, the face being screamed
at flinches at first, afraid that maybe you are angry at something he or she has done. But how short a time must it take to feel his or her own burden lifted; a load that
makes one feel free again, perhaps as momentarily free as the screamer feels? This, after such a jolt to the system. To the systems of each of us, which now
get to feel momentarily repaired, as if we have each experienced a catharsis. In the Greek sense. A purge. A spew. A vomit. And all better now, we can go
on and live another day with our mod- icum of happiness. That empathy. That connection. That intimacy. That comfortability. That relief.
The laughter. The cursing. The absolute understanding between two human beings. That “I totally get you.” Now that’s love.
I think that the wishy-washy feeling that I have had about whether I want it, know- ing full well that I do, is no longer the least bit wishy-washy. I truly want it.
Deep in the mind there is an ocean and below... —Jack Spicer
Take me out of context and I begin to make sense. Is why I am the puzzle piece that never fits; got in the wrong box somehow. My arms and legs are pretty banged up, thanks to this fact. And, oh! My head! I feel like a film depicting an extraordinarily isolated character. At least I have found that there are many such movies. They keep me company sometimes. But normally I write a new novel every day. And an entire book of poetry. I apply for every job in the city with open positions which are commensurate with the experiences I made before I became affixed to the occasional silver screen (I do get to talk to the audience on occasion...when there is one). Nobody calls me for an interview, of course. I wouldn’t exactly go so far as to say that I swim my life in a paint- ing by Van Gogh. Be- cause Van Gogh isn’t here. I do, however, have many photographs through which I often pilfer. And ev- en though this can only be done digitally, some- times, somehow, a little bit of the color from whatever era the photos I’m skim- ing through seem to leak like a lost rain- bow into my very soul.
Can we not hold it against ourselves when we hold ourselves against others? The other may be rather fond of such mouth love, just as we are. Sure, some- times it smarts to chip a couple of teeth, or have one broken in half. It hurts espec-
ially to have one shoved, wholly, halfway down one’s throat. And no laughing gas around. Trust me. I’ve been there. We’ve all been there, am I right? Anyway. Unrelatedly, I went to some- thing called Laugh Therapy a few weeks
ago with Cassandra. First of all, Polk Gulch is no place to laugh. Take my word for it and do not mention to anyone, especially someone intent on laughing for an hour or two (I still wish I knew how this actually works, but I remain a skep-
tic) that they’re in the Gulch. It's no laughing matter, let me tell you. And if you happen to be at the home of someone who resides there? Ask what it’s like being up the Gulch these days (or query with What’s it like to walk to the corner store for a
cigarette at two in the morning? or Have you met any nice neighbors yet? In my defense, I had no idea it had already been a decade this poor lady had survived in such a noir-worthy slum). To each each their own, I say. But, man, home is
where the heart is. And home is a mighty strong word for anyplace in the Gulch. I say this just in case you are not person- ally aware of this. God’s word from me to you. Just make a note of it. See [he chuck- les], I have a terrific sense of humor!
But do you know what they told me at this...this Laugh Therapy session that Cassandra dragged me to? After about five minutes, no less, it was two words: "Get out!" Not that I hesitated in the least, but they did add a few more as I was picking
up my belongings and walking out the door. They said....they proclaimed... that this was AB SO LUTELY NO place for SARcasm! The nerve! There weren’t even any placards warning anyone what a serious thing
this laughter is, not even anything on the big blow-up beach balls or the purple ball- oons; no TAKE YOUR SARCASM & SHOVE IT! No nothin’! And yet, I found myself laughing hysterically — ya know? That god-awful terrifying laugh
of mine, when it does show up, it shakes me to the core. Yet it was even more real, this laughter, if you can imagine. Such a relief from that humorless lack of hospitability. Sourpusses, each and every one of them. But there’s me, laughing for two, maybe
three entire blocks straight, directly away from the farcical home of Laugh Therapy. What a riot! I haven’t even spoken to Cassandra since, the poor gal. And, what’s worse is now I’m a bit bitter over the incident (and bitter does
rhyme with titter, does it not? That just got ya, ehh?). I believe that under the direst of circumstances that I have not only held on to my humor, but I would say I have a keener sense of the joy of sheer
laughter than anyone you might think to match me up against. And go ahead, I dare ya. Just you try to look at the choices, and as competitively as you can. I would win, hands down. I
mean, come on, look what I’m wearing, for Pete’s sake. And, like I mentioned, Pete’s not even here. Take my hair, for example. How does this mess not bring you to tears? And just have a
gander at the eclectic set of knick-knacks I’ve collected over the years—that now live right here on my living room shelf; the guffaws they’ve elicited. And there are, as always, the dozen or so thumb- tacks I keep head down on the ottoman.
Granted, I used to have a lot more comp- any than I do these days, but that was worth a gold mine every single time some poor sot went for it. I mean, who sits on an ottoman anyway? For Pete’s
sake! And, he’s not even...well, you get
my point, I am sure. [He says as he elbows his pal in the ribs:] I just dare you to tell me that I’m the only one left laughing on this here planet. In fact, I double-dog dare you.
And narrative in the so-called novel suggests autobiography. Do not roll your eyes before you read what I am saying to you. Before you read the book, I meant to say. We all play along but with something of a de- meaning manner, as if volunteering at a circus only to realize you are about to be forced to perform with
a quartet of clowns. Sure, it’s enter- taining, funny even, but it also reads like it's just a butch schizo writing an extensive diary. This caught my att- ention. For one thing, everyone lies. At least occasionally. We had no idea where she was going with this, nor which part of her was uttering it. But we had to agree it was true. We even lie to our diaries. Or at least I do. This I seize upon quietly, feeling a pang of the practice in conjunction with a perhaps embarrassing empathy. We all attempt lifetimes reaching some sort of maturity. But then there’s the kid in me. Because of this everybody lies thing, it can be less and less funny as an actor performing a role, even if comedy is the performer’s forte (mostly just slapstick). Such piquant roles are usually my best, I hear myself saying out loud, and it is true. But even our most various roles get us more and more confused about which part we’re
actually playing. Or one remembers a role and wonders if it was a dark comedic role, a lead in a musical, an overly-drama- tized love story, a raucous Shakespearian comedy (or The Tempest). None of our gang do any of his tragedies (which means we probably cry real tears more often). Be it the role of a tragicomic Chekhovian uncle or an ingenue that grows so wise during the duration of a mere three hours that her only alternative is to slam the door softly, leaving behind her family. Whether such
a climactic moment in a performance (or a lie) is an I’ve had it moment or a moral comeuppance or both, it’s the grand lie of the actor/auteur/artist that wakes one up in the still dark morning somewhere, often near
their supposed middle of life, only to have us
wonder Who the heck am I? While better people are (and if you think my portrayal of these folks as actors are not just a metaphorical stand-in for) ALL LIARS, then it will likely never be of any concern to you, anyway; you are a dying breed. But for those who are following me, aren’t they just the most easily exemplified and recognized breed of our confusion/ confession, or our waking up to never once having an idea of who we are again? It is passible that I have missed the point of an
autobiography as written by wildly diverse characters who lack any consistency and yet fit somehow into one body. And neatly, I might add. Surely you’ve noticed. No wonder she and Perez are like this [crosses fingers]. But stage directions in a poem that proves that none of us reading this (and let’s just fantasize that a million people do overnight, and the vast majority of those who do read it more than once) get the point? We are all interchangeable. We’ve become inconsis- tent, interchangeable, and we do not recognize
the ramifications. That is the minority who have the gumption to even understand or read more than a line or two of a newspaper article (much less of a poem). This is why I stick to clowning. As much as possible. There is something very consistent about a clown, so long as he never wakes up and wants instead to become a prosecuting attorney, a computer code writer or a dermatologist or something. Let the world be filled with vapid no frills types. That is what stepping into another's shoes can do for you. Besides give you blisters. Me, my shoes are about three sizes too long. Such is the life of a clown. And I've always got more than one hanky up my sleeve. I can walk around town terrorizing folks (both children and adults) then head to my job at a party and watch those same kids and those same interchangeable adults laugh themselves into a foamy mouth or a sore throat. When I am down, the last thing I want to do in the morning is put on my clown suit and my oversized shoes and my big red wig and the squeaky ball over my nose, but at least I’ve the satisfaction of knowing two things: 1) Who I am every single day; and 2) That clowns are the most stable humans in any business, if not in the entire world. Oh, and 3) Circuses may be full of manure, but they are also and always
the stuff of dreams, which are sometimes nightmares.
As hard as it might be to put this in context without a Xanax, all ‘adults’ are crazy. I tried it once, and I can put that in context without medication of any sort. It’s that true. It is also true—at least every once in a while—that the fruits of our labors—both individually and collectively—are undignified. Every once in a while, is all I’m saying. Futile. Shall I expose them to proper ettiquette? she wonders. Wait, let me look it up, he replies. To which she rolls her eyes, absolutely knowing that Amy Vanderbilt never envisioned this particular disaster. He finds the tome, its dust cover all dusty and torn. The correct way to handle one- self in the...situation we were just discussing... happens to be...all of the above. A black lab- rador hops over the coffee table and onto her lap, which makes her realize yet again how often she takes things way too literally. This tendency, she surmises, is directly tied to class. Later, I go fishing. It is there that the black lab- rador finds me, initially startling my chill com- posure. I imagine that the dog is going to hop right into the fish pond. As he gets close enough in his romp toward me for me to see that he is, yes, he is foaming at the mouth; and this is much too late for me to plan a dis- aster strategy. Or, more approp- riately, a strategy from which to avoid the quickly growing potential for disaster. And disaster strategies are my strong point. Besides, I had been fishing all afternoon without a nibble of a minnow. It was then that I somehow noticed that the red and white cork attached to my fishing line— and me still holding the rod awaiting the lethal clamp of the labrador’s jaws—had just been swallowed by the darkening pond.
One’s general use of proper manners can be indicative of many things, can get you most anywhere. More than anywhere, however, is everywhere. And we all know that one cannot BE all places at once. That goes for you, too. I have a headache. I take Advil today. I don’t know whether it will do a damned thing for my headache, but nevertheless I wait and see. Does it go on for weeks? In this climate, sure. Does it end in half an hour to an hour? Sure, but can that in any way be attributed to the Advil?
i’m not doing the right stuff. the stuff i am doing, it is incorrect. lament not, all ye who fail, for we are each flawless. i am a failure. usually, my heart, ripped from my gut, torn head lying nearby (r.i.p. ripped, torn, w/apologies).... no need for retrib ution in the aft erlife. that’s what he said, gender specifically. fade to white, says the mixologist. may be i need a brain job. otherwise known as what is the right stuff? as spoken by the astronauts on mars.
now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. or their party. or something akin to putting pen to paper (typing di rectly into the at mosphere). can agog be the gag when one has a gig? to gig is not to giggle. to gig is to do. to do is to gig. to be or not to be. doo bee doo bee doo (duh!).
