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)
Wait. This is my 1st real bout with monogamy. And it’s been four years. Waiter? Water? Where is everyone? Peering out into the audience, I see the guy in the brown cord jacket that keeps following me from bar to bar / okay, he’s definitely not following me – but. Wouldn’t follow him, either. It’s not physical. Is it? Some conclusions are best not drawn. Curtain!!
Does my wish want to be with him? You know what I’m wishin’. He’s lost the sexy red jacket and this, I thought, might be a nice way to rediscover empathy. I have only one guy (there’s already too many males). Anyway, what’s it like to be a bartender? A 30 Year Reverse? Why do I come here? Is it just the hopped up Cosmos? Logic says perhaps; I do pay full price for them here. It’s certainly not for the bartender, though. God, I hope it’s not for the bartender. . . . C B S. I mean, generally, it’s just a fuckin’ sports bar, so this is surely just BS. Right? Speaking of holy shit, that man has my beard and is wearing my pants! Later, as I’m having a cosmopolitan at the Midnight Sun, which is the worst (both the bar and the cosmopolitan). Now I’m drinking a Calistoga from Jerry at Badlands after talking to the yahoo. And I’ve just been informed I never knew him. Of all the people to look me in the eye and tell me I just do not get it! As usual, he’d been reading cinderblock-sized books about war. Oh, and Joe called as I was initially walking from The Bar to Badlands (the concept: getting a little wild; and I know, I know. . . .). I just wanted to do something. I knew he was gonna wisecrack about me constantly asking for a 25th hour. What he says is, “I’d so love a 25th hour!” Now it’s me wondering who I am, pacing around like a stick of dynamite mumbling Whose flesh? Whose bones? Which is exactly what wishes get me.
Straw. You have the sense of an artist and a scarecrow. A favorite song comes to mind so I write it down. Oh, and there’s Joaquin; more of his confessions. . .e.g, I keesed youlike cardboard. He has such a tiny adorable (is there a better word?) face. “Hello did anyone tell
you you wass sooo handsome?” – no, you’ve never – duh. But I have. I’m wearing new Gap cargo pants (on sale) striped underwear (black and gray – with sparkles – yes!) and a “TUNE OUT” t-shirt, a military green jacket (very light), cellphone, black socks (stippled soles), an old pair of New Balance shoes (gray – like my beard!). The 49ers are playing somebody and I LIKE drinking in the Castro on game night (The Bar, mostly empty) while writing. More like writhing. It’s 2:43pm – the music has slowed – the sashimi was good but it could have been better.
Take off your shirt. That moment (you are getting closer) I feel it in my middle THAT MOMENT just before the 1st kiss and you are so forthright that moment with all of these butterflies (I fantasize, no?). That moment. That moment with all these butterflies you feel it in the music he is sitting next to you for hours and you do not touch and then you are standing up – what’s the excuse? – you have to pick up a Uni-ball blue. Yes, that was the perfect moment. That was the perfect song. And I am humming it almost silently now and this is actually a short story because nothing ever happens. Yes, let’s make this a short story. (Does it have to be THIS short?). Look how sexy I am blowing my nose. What is ‘artistic sensibility’?
Disco. What I miss. Sure, I made too much of happy and single. It’s chemistry, a spiritual awakening, you feel it TOO. I can tell that you DO. Oh my those kisses I can give you and that you can give me. Am I a goddam sensual gossip or what? Full of words like tRite. I
think I’m gonna go see Jerry. Drunk on a Sunday afternoon. [Walking toward Door #2]
The music here is “it’s funny how all of a sudden you just start doing it” – (moving differently)
this must be spoken while wearing a sexy red jacket. Trumpets are blown (backdrop) – there’s a Backdrop of Trumpets. Like the Sugar Lips instrument. A backdrop of trumpets –
this is lovely – this first Sip.... Here, where the only precious lisps are just sugar lips.
Whence bearded gray – (and don’t forget the secret spell: spickle terra trix carkey) . . .
Today is Luc’s birthday and already I can feel it in my head.
Yellowing, mild at the center, I can tell. Shut your bloody trap! This is a groove it’s not the Army, and neither of us is Rock Star! For this is my tummy (check it out, Diana Ross’ alphabet) which is one huge long page of X’s. Exes. Excess. Access. Ok, I had to blow my nose because I could say nothing of substance (I haven’t yet finished my first cool beverage). I am just sitting on the back porch watching the Band Building burn. It used to be the Home Ec Building. Bldg. [a few hours later:] Okay, back to bed. I have relayed nothing of substance (if I go back to the top & read all the way thru wd there even be a THREAD (why caps?)?? Now is when everyone has brunch. It is 2:17am on a Sunday – oh the Oz (& poor Maurice) – he’s gone back to from whence he came. He had a stoplight in his living room – too many MALES on his hung art.
Football. Times past! Blue light (eyes closed, thinkin’ – what does this mean? – am I exploring?). Or just stream...like the Stream of Blah Blah Blah I float on, it just a little. Darren, it is obvious, likes me – and I WANT. DRAMA. “Watchu want or watcha need?” I can hear him now; he always exudes the obvious. Maybe this isn’t upchuck. Maybe it’s actually art. So let’s figure this shit out. CULL (this year a top ten word): 1) Cull (free flow in no particular order; 2) ?; 3); ? 4); ?; etc. Maybe I should just draw blanks. Today is Sunday. And let’s just say I shoulda known I’d be drawin’ B L A N K S ! (love has a secret) blank (ain’t that the reason I found you?) blank. I figger I’m not the 1st person to kill the blues on a Sunday afternoon – a day that was meant for the blues – like any other day, I suppose. The deal is done: love songs are now Sunday afternoon. It will just have to be. Now that everything is so perfectly thought out, I get myself together and say “Hey! I put these sticky pieces of paper all up on my love parts. So all’s you have to do is just write it.” Just right it, I’m hopin’ (heh heh). ReMIND me to type this ALL UP. (“Cut!”) That’s a great commercial.
To be funky. Frozen (no punctuation). Let’s tell one story on this page (the theme: screwing myself). Always a fish out of water (w/ a case of the feels). Take S. Deadly Motherpucker Highway to Carmel-by-the-Sea. Skip the Bay of Monterey and careen south onto Pecker. Take it all the way to the Pacific. Lunch with Mister Eastwood then hunker down until we’ve blown a few (pp.). Make damned sure they’ve come out plural. Pop down to the Cape. Don’t drive through any hurricanes unless you have time for a few once you arrive. Do not sleep through any weather! When in Texas, etc. Yesterday, the Pomera Nians (quite the pair; how they do always warm my middle). Reminder to remind him (who needs a good remindin’) to remember that no one needs to blow it (meaning my mind, mostly; we’ll be funky enough, bra). Ugh, also, note to barf, Lord of the Cockring’s Confession. I’ll be the one most desperate to forget. Oh, how I wd much rather have watched the sun rise with all of ’im, but what a boat of bongos and bananas this is turning out to be thanks to the jerk that he is (as it is already...put these in the box and jumble ’em). Seriously, I mean, Shake ’em up hard!!! It’s just that I always wanted to skip the addiction and roll right into some sort of elevated trance (in an elevator again, no doubt!) (U’s & O’s from the disco balls I’m swimming in.). “Yes you do.” “Can you try?” Ya swimmin’ little fishies!
For $2.75 plus $1 tip nobody says hello. Uni-ball pen (blue) of times past – the nostalgia you get from running around. Ok, that’s a good phrase. How come is it that I cannot complete a sentence when I’m around him? Same as I’m in- capable of walking over to say hello to coat check guy. THIS – CRUSHES – is not the 1st monogamy in five years nearly. Q. Wd u spend $150 for a pair of shoes? A. Yes. Q. Position? A. Missionary. This isn’t quite true. I like it better when you top me – damn! – you really act like you want it. & elsewhere: “Do you like dirty talk?” and “Sex Sex Sex” (either cubed or crushed like ice).
