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)
Turn on the tee vee. W atch all the hyp ocrisy. Smear a knife full of pean ut butt er over the last pieces of the dark loaf from who knows when. Give out a few span kings for Ha lloween tricks. Look d own the hallway at who’s coming by for his tr eat now (of all the times).... Slam the door shut. Call it a day.
Pill popping pilferers often do not even realize that they are pilferers, that they have been pilfering. One of them might come home of an evening to discover a series of baubles in her pockets, some twenty dollar bills and a baby’s pacifier, and she’s pretty sure she hasn’t been to one of those Union Square eng- agement ring / fancy gemstone stores (“I was hanging in Oakland with friends last night, right?” she mum- bles to herself). She knows without a doubt that she’s been flat broke for months now and is still surprised by Jackson’s gigantic head, even though deep down she knows this is not a recent development in paper money. Bobble- headed presidents and statesmen and women (she wonders for a moment and then decides no on stateswomen) and famous inventors (like most of us in this country, she took American History and has probably therefore yet to catch up with the reality, or surreal- ity, of the things she knows most to be tried and true). She remembers that Ed gave her money a few days ago for a bottle of rum (airport sized, plastic, so $5 was the grand sum) but has no idea how she has now been jinxed with such an inevitably joyous but also downright scary stroke of luck,
in that utter lack of remembering way. And she’d been through similarly frenzied pocket discoveries where, in the end, that initial excitement had been entirely erased. Nope, any joy from what she’d found in the bulging depths of her hand-pockets, it was not pretty, and she winced at the thought. And as for the baby pacifier, she placed it immediately in her mouth and began sucking it loudly, tiny little droplets coming from her eyes. And she hadn’t even bothered to wipe the nubbin clean.
The bowling alley was drenched. He stands at the gate of depart- ure, wondering, Should I stay or should I go? The pastel-colored eggs in the gigantic basket were misshapen. Suddenly, she rem- embers the roll of film that she had dropped into her generous vodka martini. Poor Ginger has a strong distaste for ginger (and also for lemongrass). Chomp- ing for minutes over the bowl, knowing he looked like a horse, he regretted spooning up the last dregs of soup into his mouth with greed (for it was a spoonful of no- thing but lemongrass, as it turned out). I am eternally amazed at how she does it, those mir- aculously perfect hot buns. The District Attorney melted slow- ly and sweetly into the District Superintendent's lonely mouth (same district). All of the humans missed the parade in Area 51 that Monday afternoon. Gigantic fluorescent bulbs light the Grand Canyon tonight. An alternate universe where Billy Joel is the super- model. Pillow Talk, starring Doris Day and Dale Evans. The starship Enterprise crash- lands on the planet Tatooine.
How much longer are you gonna be here? —Kris Jenner
I do not watch television. I guess what I really mean is I watch tv quite rarely. These days, anyway.
This was not always the case. I turned the te- levision off for about ten years around 2000 (the year that I moved to San Francisco, as it turns out). Because it was all Reality TV, Who Wants to Be A Money Money Money Money, American Idol. Even Lost looked like a cross between a soap opera and Survivor to me. To me, television was filled with no- thing but total trash.
Then, about a decade later, with a huge new television, and a room- mate who watched it (at least Nick at Nite and the Cartoon Net- work) I’d occasion- ally watch TV.
During that decade plus, I got used to enjoying shows I never watched but learned to love. It was a couple thing, it seems, upon re- flection.
Soon, network shows exploded on the internet. That’s how i look at it, any- way. Suddenly, after bingeing on Mad Men and Damages, watching TV was not synony- mous with having a lobotomy, or at least having one’s intelligence (should one have it) insulted.
These days there’s Netflix and Hulu and Amazon and CBS (Yes, CBS has been around forever, but that is a network to which I’d certainly subscribe, were the extra money necessary to do so at my disaposal. Should I add only because of the new Star Trek?). Even HBO seems a must again, just
to keep up with pop culture. And there are so many good shows. When Meryl Streep appears on a weekly drama, you know the world has changed.
So why am I writing this poem sitting here in my friends’ hotel room (We happen to be watching The Kardashians.
It’s my first time, it seems nec- essary to add.)? I feel old as I try not to listen to what they are saying on the monster set in front of the cushy hotel couch upon which I am sitting.
And uncomfortable and embarrassed as the world moves away from me.
