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)
the bigger the X mas. Call Mom. Check for Alan. Do a lot of things for a whole bunch of names I get mixed up with, get mixed into, don’t want to give away. Giving is caring. Go to the rodeo. Call Lyft to re move false charges. Forget about the fraud you met for a mov ie that night. Try not to be lieve the per son you nev er met gave you your soul back. Take that last item off the list. Believe in fraud with out becom ing his (its) victim’s lo go. Go Tig ers. Unlock old phone. Try not to get lost a gain, to go backwards, to sleep on the sidewalk. Talk to the people who knock on your door.
the map of his necktie was of the slowest, most scenic, almost circ- uitious route to hell with the arc of the styx rising like a blue rain- bow, slightly above the angular tip at the bottom of the necktie where the en- trance to the wailng and the gnashing, presumably, just above the dagger pointing generally down- ward at all times. except that he had tied it too long to make the joke work. which, to me, made him immediately an enticing jerk! so hell was the blank space between his thighs, halfway down to his knees from his pel- vis, covering the possibility of sex. a prude in hell. which, come to think of it, seems the only brand of human that would consider this conceptual boiling pot of supposed eternal misery uncomfort- able in the least. i imagined that the squeaky- shoed man in funeral attire (as he arrived
at his first day on the job; so of course there was the obvious ogling that fol- lowed him, nat- urally, wherever he clumsily and aimlessly shuff- led — in fits and starts — in that panicky lost puppy dog sort of way), until some party-pooper showed him to his desk in an inappro- priately gentle- manlike manner. all I could think for the next few weeks, yet only once or twice even passing him in the hall- ways of the glib mundanity that was the firm in which I had given a decade (or so) was the fantasy of run- ing into him someday down THERE, in that blank space between the middle of his thighs. at a tantalizing way of being driven to cra- zy wailing in the depths of torment that would be.
There are certain days, certain moments in time — during which, even as you pierce your way into one hoping to quickly break out to the other side — that live heavy and vivid upon your soul. I’m not here to suggest that the soul may exist. It’s just that I am, at present, and without a doubt, stuck in one of those moments that, even if I do break through into the beaut- iful sunshine-filled blue of the livable, breathable, imperative atmosphere, I know that, for better or worse, if this horrib- le bubble that threatens to wrap me eternally within its toxic nightmare of fog that burns the guts of who- ever it is that I am, of whatever it is that is me, of whatever exist- ence even is, that I will not wander my last days a pess- imist. I know that, even if I’m stuck here until the stink of solitude and self-pity sours my flesh and desiccates whatever lies beneath until I am but an un- godly mound of ash, I won’t wither away in this awful state before something dispells such a- typical darkness. I cannot explain why I know this. But I do. And my odds on what hap- pens next, if this is my time, of what will snap me clean out of darkness: why, it will be my one truest love — yes! of this I re- fute all but certitude — who’ll arrive in the nick of time, pierce the mantle of this poisonous world as if with sword in hand through the devil. And as my knight arrives, he will lay at my face a sin- gular rose, fresh-cut, dew- lapped, and more crim- son than my eyes have ever beheld. And as it lies just beneath my nose, giv- ing my last inhalation such honeyed intoxication, if I am then gone, I will have done so with one final blast that sweetly envelops my senses such that I cannot remember any of the pitiful moments such as the one I’ve just escaped, moments of such relative brevity in this mostly bless- ed life (and to be stuck in such a dour moment is not to be living); so that I may rid myself of this insignificant blip of sorrow the same way I always do, by succumb- ing to naught but the joy of the instant, the now, with my knight crouched beside me — an instant of living, as if to remind me that there is before me a boundless future of such bliss as this, playing in endless loops, loops which have held me captive since as far back as I can remember ... inside of this pleasance, the softest cocoon filled with love, or whatever it is that has always embraced me with arms as if conjured by magic, my body so wrapped in gooseflesh it’s as if my soul is not only in here, but is about to erupt. As if something deep within this con- tainer of muck is so drawn to the comfort of an embrace, that it will soon explode, leaving only an ecstasy stuck on repeat, as if for forever — or mostly so. At least long enough that I live what must be my very last moment dazzled by the hope for a lifetime — or more — of the same.
“Okay, have another,” she insisted. “We have got to get on the same level!” I do believe that she was rolling her
eyes. She never learned. “That’s absolutely correct,” said I. “But just to warn you” [or is it just to remind you?], “I’m already two steps behind
you,“ I faux-winced, before adding, “but of course three levels atop ya.” I glared back in the least menacing way I believed I could, or at least I felt
that it had been, like my seconds- ago performance of a fake wince a tremendously fantastic and completely non-judgmental meta-
phorical comparison, this time between our two separate toxicities, the degrees to which one of us was higher and/or lower than the other.
I mean, she is a lightweight and all, but yet one who is a magical combination of titan- ium and sponge. Perhaps I’m the sponge... made of titanium or something, is the
direction I allowed my mind to drift. Let’s put it this way: I was ex- tremely gifted at babysitting inebriants my own age (and sometimes twice
my age; and on more than one occasion, thrice!). It was one of my many gifts, like popping out my shoulder blades at church when
I was a child, so as to create the utter confusion which would quite audibly follow, coming from pews behind me that (and here
neither age nor sex nor even the degree of severity to one presented oneself week-in and week-out would have any bearing on this giggle-a-thon)
each thought they were witnessing the swift birth of back-wards-pointing, ill- sexed, terribly abnormal boobs (I suppose, but I wonder for a split-second whether if
I were to actually have boobs, no matter which direction they pointed, come on, would they be pronouncedly ill-sexed?). And this is when I pulled my version of
improper etiquette monster no no of the year. My greatest fear had just happened. I remember when it would happen to my calculus professor in undergrad. He
would pause a moment too long, visibly come back into the earth’s atmosphere, contort his face into a sort of frozen chuckle (with-
out chuckling at all, in actuality), and then say both dreamily and confidently, "Whoa!........Two trains just collided in my head. I’m really
sorry but I have no idea what I was just saying.” The best part was that this would almost always coincide with the end of the class for the day.
No matter whether it was anywhere close to lunchtime. But on those days when he didn’t allow the tragedy that had just occurred in his head
to be a catalyst for class dismissal, he would without fail call on me to answer his next calculus question which did not seem calculated at all, unless he
was seeking a bigger answer, like my demise, because these would always be non sequitur and some- times even non-calculus queries,
riddles, I would even suggest would be the better word, those questions and queries. To this day I believe that
it was only because I laughed the
hardest and the longest at his cheesy train-brain-drain joke. These questions would, in turn, leave me completely speechless,
and probably more to the point if my future would be an indication, would leave me completely devoid of humor, which meant, further-
more, that these questions, these riddles, are just enough to catalyze within me what I still believe to be the front-end symptoms
of what I would later, and with much more familiarity, be able to self-diagnose: a panic attack. (And, yes, these
attacks, and their frequency, have amped up with a ruthlessly drawn- out crescendo over the years). To this day, I suffer from what my
therapist says (with a sly grin!) is PTSD every time I hear a locomotive, whether I am stopping for one to pass or I hear it's familiar chug and the hideous
music that toots non-stop from its... chimney. But that is a story for another day. Or it would have been, I suppose, had I but held my course
(no matter how low the likelihood of that happening may be). This one is, I recall, about how Tessie and I relearn how much our incompati-
bility sags when we come up with the brilliant idea to split a joint. And apparently, she had just caught the same nostalgic ball of wax that
I had, if not a few second before (and, yes, a reminder to self: that no matter how far gone she may seem, she never fails to beat me to the
punch at anything...well...except pick- ing up girls in bars ...which, truth be told here, is not my idea of a winning punch.) (Nor hers) (Not even close, in
either case.). So now she has collapsed into her version of stitches, lying motion- less and on my kitchen floor, which was, in my case, a stone mosaic
depicting (by an arty friend of mine) a rather bawdy interpretation of the last supper (Get it? It’s such a splendid idea. That is, if you love hours of deranged
conversations, which, among my friends, tends to occur regularly — hours and deranged — words which probably describe these pro- longed word-heaps better than any other com-
bined pair. To a T.). So Tessie lay motion- less and stiff and seemingly unconscious, which, to recap, was her way of projecting emotion of any kind. And she initiates
this in an overly-dramatic fashion: beginning with an all-in feigned faint. Which I have, for better, or worse, some- how come to block, un-see or, better put,
completely erase (but of course, inadvert- antly), to fail to witness under any circum- stance as it actually happens, even if she’s standing shoulder-to-shoulder beside me
or, even more odd, quite literally mano a mano). And when this collapse, her ‘faint’, occurs, I am told she does it with such gusto, with such awkward panache (which,
believe me, is not an oxymoronic pair of words in her case...but there is no way any explanation the duration of time of which is less than that of a regular workday would
would do it justice, so just nevermind). She performs this fete by dropping to the floor as if fainting, and therefore she lands with a slam, somehow into such contorted poses
as of those that fall to the street from some- where near or at the tops of many-storied buildi- ngs often appear after deciding their fate (or being, pushed, which, little known fact, you can tell by the
look of their dead face if, indeed, the clump on the street or sidewalk or atop a car or having been split
by a trash-bin or whatever was murdered or rather
killed by their own doing). Needless to say, somew-
here in the clump of Tessie which began as a col- lapse my mind disputes, and who is now a noiseless and movement-free, misshapen pile on my kitchen floor, she is somewhere
in there (pejoratively and punnily) laugh- ing her ass off. In fact, now this scene is starting to make much more sense. Because the moment she arrived
this morning with her (mandatory) peach cobbler, she turns around, makes a slate-cleaning movement with her right arm and hand behind
her back (which, I might add is one of her many brilliant and mind-boggling talents) and proclaims to no one in particular (to be more trans-
parent, I was the only other human being in attendance at this time), “My butt is getting flatter and flatter, doncha think?
I am totally becoming my hus- band,” to which I had to do some quick and intense recollection, and it turns out she was correct,
they do both have flat asses. This gar- ners a rather less false look of menace (I hope?). Sure, I was performing. It’s inevit- able, isn’t it? Everything we do is a per-
formance. Really? Well, maybe it was. Per- haps in actuality, I had become my own per- formance. And why not? Because that’s what we do, I pondered, reiteratively, just to let
it sink in. “Of course I’m not angry, darling,“ I put on my best calm, my most convincing matter-of-fact, and continued to clean the kitchen counters. We had
just finished Comedy Brunch, our own miniature version of Live at the Apollo, in the breathable comfort of my very own home.
It is our monthly gig, and while we were often less than hilarious, we are a close- knit mix of the people I love; friends for life. And like those who live life, we’re made
of the most randomly diverse group of individuals imaginable (I can on- ly use my imagine to gauge, but you get the picture). And, boy, when we
got together like this, it was always such a hoot. Family does exist, if even in the imagination. And, hey! Do not knock it until you’ve tried it.
I am thinking that a poem could go on forever. —Jack Spicer
like life doesn’t? only it does. he positions him- self at the cor- ner of his bed, the one corner where the mat- tress sinks into the drastically devastated box springs. a day does not pass without me thinking at least one time about my apart- ment’s pre- vious tenants: those former- ly most fam- liar with this room (of its history, its de- tailed structure, the tales that lie within the slightly en- larged coffin- like/ -shaped space of this one-room home, where many a a dull story — and perhaps a hand- ful or two more colorful stories — persist). history. alongside my story. a safe haven. a prison. a hideout of in- troverts and soc- ially anxious ex- troverts dying for the comp- any of a friend, yet resigned to the obvious: that those folks are long gone. which leads to endless hours puzzling over why. want- ing to believe that suddenly, any mo- ment now, they’ll be back, maybe all at once, as if arriving at one of the many par- ties you used to throw just to prove that you existed, but then understanding that now is now and that then was then, and so you get over it, you get better, you begin to really get it; puzzlement understanding, getting better, definitely not understanding, getting bitter, understanding better (not a eureka! moment for certain), def- initely not under- standing, etc. muddling con- cepts like loyalty and commitment zipping for light years around in your head. what comfort is famili- arity or domesticity when just as you finally begin to believe in their existence, they are ripped away from you by the pickpocketer of souls? now, at my brokest, now that I’m most- ly broken, a fucked-up for- mer king who just wants to call a few of his courtiers, who wants a desperate word with the jester, wants to see and know that his family, the in- habitants of his castle (his prison?) are smiling with re- cognition and out- reached hands for that electrically in- timate touch of the handshake. where one’s hand meets with the zinging grip of another’s, in a union that isn’t yours. and will never be. and the same goes for the dream of being tugged into a double kiss, once upon each blushing cheek; or worse, the night- of the firecrackers, kisses that seem giddily eternal as they fall with sloppy clarity upon the lips and burn with the intimacy of a child suckling. where is wisdom cash and what can such currency even afford? must it be pressed and cut, then bound as neatly as those shelved manuscripts gathering dust on the bloated bookshelf of any office, each page having been delivered verbatim by nobodies lying flat upon couches to sleepy doc- tors who act as co-authors: collab- orateurs with each lying or sitting, slouch- ing or erect body with its head propped upon a pillow, or is at other times holding it down with their hands in some kind of int- imate sorrow in a stance that is aimed either at comfortable or excruciatingly uncomfortable; peopled furniture in countless over- ly warm rooms that dim an en- tire continent. there is, rather, a large por- tion — the majority, let us surmise — of the human population, who were each molded in such a way that is ideal for such collab- orative work, either to sit behind an often oversized wooden desk or table built to utilize the varied alternative blocks of furniture upon which they are each directed to sit, or to lie. to sit and to lie. com- promise may very well be earned, during these hab- itual efforts. and when they are, the tome con- structed is quite often as much revelation as it is anomaly. is it that some are born knowing... who they are? and if so, where or how does this intuition mutate, then thrive, when sideswiped by the glorious age of self. this perpet- uation is probably not even apocalyptic. in which case I am missing something crucial. maybe we all are. how one refuses to give up seems to be- come something eternal. but. I must believe and advocate for those who are happier and make their optimistic quest far more than a small eternity of delusion. they do, however, tend to die in tragedy. in most cases, almost always, no matter what. what single word could save your world now? could save mine? my connections, the ones which were every- thing to me, were real. and yet just as suddenly (and in tandem) were flimsy, unreal. what is this called? why did they do that!? why did they disappear en masse at such a critical moment? I have no time to dissect delusion. one day there is a world living, breathing, engag- ing and zigzagging around you (dur- ing which, take time for gratitude, I would advise), and the next.... all of us are de- clared dead. to me. a clear intention on the part of the already dead?what are those who remain to do with this? The rumor persists that they’re all very much alive, thank you. and they do not un- derstand or care what a few words uttered or a horror acted out as if the world is just an opera might do for anyone, for me. it’s not exactly the butterfly effect when the eradication of a a half-life or so of fully lived engage- ment blows up, right before one’s eyes. am I just as guilty? is a cry for help the same thing as the act of pulling slightly away? To fail to see a single one of these friends (I see no other word for it: friends) materialize, to watch as each loved one disappears synchronously at the front edge of the most excruc- iating period of one’s ex- istence (a period, like ex- istence, that can last a day, a year, a decade, etc.), of one’s life.... perhaps the duration depends propor- tionally upon the loss of the cacophony, which, or was, in all senses, the ob- jective. wasn’t it? but this... this has been my life. I had a beautiful family, one that was mutually agreed- upon, tacitly or not. and now it is gone. which of us fools, me or my prodigal family, still exists? I reach toward an answer to each day, but remain shrouded in the silence that is left behind, while desperately trying to remember that it once existed, just as I once did, so as to not completely deny myself of that reality. For better or worse, I oc- casionally become mot- ivated to repeat this cycle, to do it all again, to del- usionally and deliberately construct a new family, just like the one I collab- oratively built years ago, forging siblings and part- ners, to make my own tiny country, a domicile all my own. like the one that lost the last war. a war hatched for some unspecified reason. that is now only an erasure on a map which I keep study- ing. I moved through the delusions with great con- tentment and much hap- piness; time had meaning, then. so of course I will re- ignite this quest. to what end? I do not know any- thing except this: engage- ment is not delusion? I hold each moment the delusion was real. they are inescapable, unerasable, it turns out. I will open different doors as I move forward. some- thing is missing. terribly. rather than ask how to find it, I look to you and ask: how might you go about forging a reality out of a delusion? and why do I still believe, my friend? my friend. yes. because logic does not prevail in such matters. I do believe that the delusion is real. I can ask why, or for your take, until, as they say, the cows come home; until I am blue in the face (both inside and out). and so I do. who would know better than you? so I persist. I ex- ist. if but only so that I might as well make it my own, this blessed delusion.
Hi, has it been a problem? I mean of course not, but I was remember- ing earlier how last year seems like yesterday. Or so very long ago. I just noticed that you cannot have the word agony without ago. And it is right there at the beginning. Had I never noticed this before? Is it a pro- blem? What has made me notice now? I mean, is the obvious always so obvious?
Dumb question. Of course not. I, for one (as if there are others; are there others?), cannot get Freud out of my subconscious. Except, how could I know that Freud was even in my subconscious (duh because sub; I’ve always been much more of a dom)? “Well isn’t that a conversation stopper!” Who said that? I want to immediately write a book about con- versation stoppers. Well, actually just about
conversations. To narrow it down further, how to actually have one. It seems to me that people do not have them anymore. I have this theory (Is this already a thing? Have I been beaten to the punch, the pacifist, to his one significant theory?) that this is because everyone exists in their own i- maginary world. Well most everyone? I’d like to say not me (of course), but not remembering your past is sort of like living in a made-up world, am I right?.... Anyway, when confronted with the gate-
way into the realm of reality, we freeze, choke up, incapable of setting foot through it, either by inevitably diverting from the entrance (this can be done by sternly deciding not to even dip a toe into the reality realm altogether or by tucking tail between legs and galumph- ing away like the Cowardly Lion) or by refusing to even wander anywhere near the perimeter or by getting anywhere remotely near the fabled gateway to reality — ever again.
![[T]enderheartedly.](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2gP5EwqAXBW4te_TA3nG0ZhX-DZgsjfu2rU_9vsQl8ya00cIJfCzZYFn86ZX5nzW9BbyKTPmN4Dico9vWEZePw3LfrP4Gkt2XrDbedTwUjE8AH72SryooMSaKlhPpPoB3gDt/s1600/harsh+hearts.jpg)
