‘Walked right into it, that’s what He did.’ I don’t wanna be that guy. But how Onerous does one have to be in order to be called out?
And so I go about my day, watching news blips and Reading articles on the internet from today’s news. It’s Exhausting,
Though. How can these idiots live with themselves? And I become Enraged. So enraged. Yet Exhausted. I’m no activist. But how incredibly
Frustrating to see progress reverse engineered. It’s the Ultimate offense. If I had the energy, I’d scream, sling Curses at them, ad infinitum, Knowing full well that there is not one thing I can do to Stop such ugly behavior. Crooks, all! How could they possibly care ?
Nobody died. I didn’t even die. What makes you so sad? There is no direct correl ation within these statements. My point is (and come to think of it, are
these even statements?) people died—of course there were those who did. But there’s always hope.
Isn’t there?
Yes? There’s always hope? Do you listen to a lot of comedy? Of comedians? I do.
And this seems to be a
pretty consistent theme.
Or is it just me? No? but of course? It’s comedy. That’s what comedy is. It’s hope. It’s a touchy thing, comedy, I’m thinking, watching a new stand-up’s HBO special. How do they get away with it? I wonder. How does he get away with this? Then, again, I think, oh, because it happened in the comedy zone. It’s a space where this sort of thing can be gotten away with. Can be accommodated. And this gets me to thinking, once again, of dying, of death. Of Ireland, and of other places in the world I’ve never been. But of death, of funerals and of wakes. I can’t handle funerals. No, more precisely, I just don’t go to funerals. Funerals are not for the (public) grief about
which they purport to
be. A funeral is, I find, is mostly just public
(Although, I suppose,
some are private, right? Still...) posturing. They’re political. I think of funerals
serve more
as a device
within which
to position
oneself in relation to— I mean, I think of death when I think of funerals, of course—the dead. They scream “Okay, now, what do I get from this?” Yeah. And maybe this is mostly my problem. A personal problem. But a wake, to me, a celebration of someone’s life, where there’s drinking, there’s laughing and there’s wailing, now that is my idea of how to handle— a way to execute—the passing of someone in close proximity. How, exactly, is death like comedy, though? Somehow the two seem to fit well together, in my line of thinking, and
Insistence. Sliver of a moon flung into the sky while clipping a fingernail. Turns a blah dusk beautiful. You feel it right here. [Press hand to beat’s insist ence; persistence.] Someday my day will come. And the sun, from heaven can be heard scream ing like a cauldron oft chapped children. Oh. He’s merging diverge nces. Is this okay? It is love that doesn’t an
swer the question. Water. We want water. This resistance too dim to refocus is no bliss. The hiss of steam that risks reaching the sun. Which wishes with malice that it were a palace filled with snow. Yo, a snow palace tosses a couple of balls to make of the moon a snow-moon. Oh, tiny lunar man within, of ice (of ice) your aortal orbit will mean my demise, it must end (it must end). Upon what magic do you depend? Could you, please, might you instead, find in your tiny green heart an escape mechanism, an off-ramp? Can you hear me, my snowman? With what incantation might you be knocked off your course. Make your way to my soul, I insist (with insistence), even though I’m aware what a fool I am doing so. Who am I, you might ask, to relay such an order? Just an overgrown immature earthling, in fact, who shall lie on this sword just to prove his exist ence. How might he bargain his way out of this headlong rush into the morgue’s freezer? But it is no use, his memory, useless, is too slow to unbury his one winning chip: “Ah, when I’m a cadaver, it’s doomsday for all of us.” Who knew what a sweet pleas ure that freezing could be?
What a mug on that one! Although, I suppose that faces say a lot of things they’re not. Like Do not step one more foot toward me! or, especially, Love me because I am lovable. Those are just two examples, but you get the picture. And so I tread carefully, and only in my head. But I’m so drawn to those big circular ears pointed right at me and rising like two big pink moons from the fuzzy clay-colored surface of some faraway planet. Where you do not want to run low on here is oxygen. I know this well. It’s just picture perfect. Yet it’s a face that could set off a million alarms, this one. Sure, those eyes are so ad orably open that they’re ovular in a vertical way, but you don’t know what they’re really looking at or what inevitably cruel thoughts lie behind them. Even though you can practically feel their gaze. Right at your heart, you can. But in that same heart, your own heart of hearts, you know. You know that the most likely of likelies is that they’re scouring this godforsaken countryside for a bite to eat. And of course. Because look around. There’s nothing else here. I mean, the only thing standing between that rat and the rest of the uni verse is me.
famous people who are famously afraid of getting on an airplane have landed upon something pretty solid.
i, with little renown, am not one of them, but i can relate very well to the illogic of such a fear, having been there. but
i have been there and back again, turning forty in paris, for example. finding the romance of italy in the holy trinity of roma, firenze and
venezia, i became a devout convert. in and out of london for a cross- continent trek by train to copenhagen to begin a stunning baltic cruise, with
stops in stockholm, helsinki, talinn, st. petersburg and oslo with a final stop at amsterdam. and there were separate two-week treks to tokyo
and hong kong. granted, this all took place within a three year time-frame over a dozen years ago. a lot has happened since
the last trip abroad that it’s odd to frame the severity of what had become an inability to board an airplane so that i might arrive
in such a faraway somewhere. but i know how strong the desire to get there was within me. and on paper i understand the years
of working on the solution to that conundrum. i can still taste the glory of finally deciding upon a solution and of stepping on that
first international flight. so this fear was never a value for me, it was a detriment, a problem that i absolutely had to solve. this i
remember. and i have thousands of graphical depictions of the truth, that i was there, and many of these tease my memory into reminiscence,
placing me there. and there. and there. i can remember, as well, how insurmountable this fear felt, but also how i never once allowed that to alter
my belief that i would find a way to overcome that fear, i was firm in my confidence that i would get there. but now i am here. values evolve,
belief systems change, motivation and desire can dissipate. did i simply need to prove to myself that i could accomplish something i took for granted
that i would do, especially once i found an obstacle that i needed to overcome, a puzzle i needed to solve, in order to actually do it? i am trying to understand,
here, now, a dozen years after that most incredible whirlwind tour of the world. i am sitting here, frustrated with these thoughts, forcing myself at them in order
to get at an answer to something. to rediscover purpose, to gather somewhere in me the motivation. there are things that can reframe perspective entirely,
and along with these circumstances comes the passage of time, which diminishes everything as we move toward vapor, toward nonexistence,
or whatever inevitability is. this, today, seems the enemy to me; and a brutal one, at that. because at some point, it is to this enemy
that we each must concede. but how? this question of how to untangle myself from these thoughts—or so as to, better still, given the inevitability—
reconcile them has me more than just a little bit stumped at times. but my desires have not faded. and i have goals. i know more of who i am and
how much better i want to be than i did when i first set foot on that airplane to paris. and most of me believes that i am not only a better person for it, but
a better person for going through this extended set of circumstances which has kept me from getting on an airplane for over a dozen years now, that has
kept me from landing at whatever new place, has had me instead flailing about, as in a large body of water, no land in sight, gasping for breath, finally seeing
land and, for what seems like forever, exhaustedly swimming steadily toward it. will i get there? i’ll say yes. today, that is the only answer there can be. and
when i do, where will i be? i cannot be certain. and sure, it feels at times like a devastating setback to have such a fuzzy goal knowing where i have been,
knowing how much determination i had of getting there, of feeling so assured of where i would be when i set foot on the earth once again. but the exciting part
was getting acquainted with this foreign environment, the discovery, the education, and these are things i can do just as well once i make it to the shore. once i find
myself once again on solid land. how droll it is to relay repetitively to you that i am so tired, and how frightening when doubts arise, about whether or
not i will make it. so i teach myself the grace, the choreography of swimming and i believe so intensely that i can literally taste the sand of
the approaching shore, of the land that i approach, of the land upon which i will soon stand. and as it gets closer, i get hungrier, and i
believe. and once i have learned all i can from this water, and once i have learned all i want from this new place, upon which from my
graceful swim, that will become a crawl in which i cling to rocks or the sand of a foreign land, from which i will rise, get back
upon my feet with my head in the sky, and explore and explore and explore...once i am done i will, replete with
all of this new knowledge, this education, i will, and with swagger, board another flight. and wherever it lands,
You sent my strongest belief all the way to the moon that was You and Your druthers You had no intention to finish the deal Yours was with the devil to make me a meal You sent me a poisonous something or other and into a virtual coma
You heel You sent me a message about how I tasted You took the old offer with Lucifer danced until I was comatose comatose mole me a ken for You sent me a wheel barrow filled to the brim with Marlboro Lights then You sent Carl to Garl in my grandfather’s car You sent Hedda Hopper a red helicopter You sent Aaron Burr he didn’t concur then strident with failure the soup from the dregs of the witch’s black cauldron four petals of daisy a ton of manure You act the old man in the stetl who sent Harry’s mistress a sedan full of cardigans all because You’d given them up for lent and what about me? I have spent all my bills for a whiff of Your scent it’s obscene can’t You see that the devil mayn’t cure this horrid dizzies (cuz You sucked all the bones out of both of my ears) oh dear You sent me a flurry of weevils to wither my crops which dizzied into a big crumple of whir (oh, Lord if I’m ever as bored as a stale maple plank please disallow my old love the same gall to approach such a vulnerable peasant as me) You’ll crawl through the dormer and slink through the attic and down the creaked stairwell to slaughter my kittens I’d rather submit to a tortuous slumber in the thick of the brambles that wave in the breeze like the darkest Pacific down that barely discernible path that we used to tread daily Your hand soft in mine oh You monstrous concoction of amoral memory You’re wearing Your hood and Your cape and thank heavens my eyes can now see through such dapper illusions for You are as evil as ever conniving contriving with my heart in Your teeth and Your deeds none but dastardly You made a meal
out of me but only to spit me right out go away go away I shall have no more of You not any not ever til my eyes can but watch as the lid of the coffin
Epiphanies to Some Revelations to Others Gossip to a Few Lucky Ones
Well, okay, I would add mere practicalities for me. Just to potentially hyper bolize the gossip. Beware of bleeding ear syndrome (and the unexpected arr ival of a fleet of firefighters,
one of which tells me “You’ve got blood on your ear!” I know, I say. It’s a shaving accident. He says these things happen. But one must admit, or at least I will, that an ear is the second or third most disturbing portion
of a body to discover bleeding profusely. Things that are mangled and/or bloody. Is that today’s topic? Nope. I am looking to you, however. Might I be so bold as to ask from within these stanzas what
YOU would deem your two most precious body parts? Please reply to delraycross@shampoo-poetry.com. The story of the hyphen between “shampoo” and “poetry” is off- subject a wee bit, but not the original question, please do not
forget. Anybody? Anybody? Encouragement to give your guesses (no guess will be judged - scratch that - it is 2023, I will stay with the times, any answer will be duly judged. What are opinions for, anyway?
There was some chicken scratch in this general vicinity of the draft of this piece in which I offered the option of anonymous answers and then mentioned the notion that celebrities have a less difficult time at anonymity
than most folks because of the financial means at their disposal to come up with ways to remain anonymous (ironic, isn’t it?). And thenafter those meanderings I go on to say let’s not make
a bitter diatribe but rather an adherance to steadfast observation - scientific, if you will; statistically prov able observation. Now, let’s get back to the blessed body. What do YOU do when
you discover a skin flap (on yourself; on someone else, which could be someone you love, someone with whom you are very close, or a stranger, a mere acquaintance)? What
do you do when you witness someone sitting across from you who has some thing clearly stuck between their teeth (answer again
separately for the same 5 types of folks with whom you may encounter this event)? What do you think of Paul Rudd (be specific and elabarate)? As a
quick reminder, don’t forget the email address noted above to relay these answers. (Bonus points for any comments about the website to which the URL in the email address leads.
Also, a tally of metaphoric hands from whom the answer would be “I do not know from this so- called SHAMPOO” - this would be more a meta phorical pole vault.) Here’s
a query: Men, how do you groom your balls? I’m looking for best practices here, along with any tricks of the trade, innovation or creativy in your various processes. When about to
read a poem, what are your general first thoughts? On those times when you have finished one, or in the future when you do finish one, are there any revelatory thoughts of a profound nature that you
would be willing to share with me? Let’s say you shave your face and there are left afterwards a number of spots of blood that give your face the appearance that it has a bunch of red freckles. Out of my abundance of curiosity,
what do you do next? What do you think of interactive art? Of collaborative poetry? Do you know of any interesting examples about which you could enlighten me? What are your thoughts on what appears to be male-shaved chests?
What about the ones who appear quite unkempt, like lawns unmown, for years? What about that pretend “I’ve let it all go look,” which has gone through a very elaborate and elongated time in which it has been groomed just for that effect? How about some topical
entities. Let’s get red-faced. How do you feel about Donald Trump? About Joe Biden? That was cheap. I’m sorry. These are things that are on my mind constantly, however. How about slide projections of old. Remember slide carousels? The process of putting old school presentations together (the antithesis of Power
Point, I’d say)? That thought, for whatever reason, keeps whizzing past me. What do you think of baldness? Of realative hairless ness? Do you wear underwear, in general? Do you prefer poses or candid photographs? Do you like graffiti? What do you consider ephemera? Where do you think you might
find a gay bakery? What social media do you use? Who are your favorite broadcast news journalists? What is the best improve ment you can imagine happening to life as you presently experience it. Aside from a bit more social engagement and a bit more confidence and a job and lack of occasional paranoia that
swirls pretty consistently around those subjects, and a few additional items of proximity, I think I’m happy as clams and soon to be happier, Though I doubt clams are really that happy. What do you think about clams and happiness? Now that you’ve gotten this far, do you think you might indulge me with responses? Thanks in
advance for indulging by sending your responses to me at delraycross@shampoo-poetry.com. Have an awesome day.
I have a canoe that gives me therapy my insurance won’t cover. —Chen Chen
Some of my most stress-ridden moments have occurred during therapy.
One thing about being homeless in California is the amazing medical insurance.
It pays for everything in that area, pretty much, and was the only perk to being homeless.
At least that I can think of. And I can’t think of much during that period.
Because there’s a thing called trauma and a thing called PTSD. These can affect memory.
And when one has as lousy a memory as mine, almost anything can eliminate it.
Or hide it, as the case may be. Which is why I write.
I can’t begin to tell you the number of times I found msyelf overwelmed with joy or some other emotion (sometimes not a favorable one) upon reading something I wrote that had me remembering.
I do not think of this as a problem. What I think of as a problem is forgetting things, whether inadvertantly, intentionally or in some darker subconscious manner.
I could elaborate on why I believe remembering/memory is so relevant, but won’t at the moment. I will mention, though, that I discuss this at length quite often in this very poetry project.
Granted, there are getting close to being 3,900 poems in this project, so there is always the chance that you’d have to pilfer through a bunch of poems that would potentially not be to your liking before getting to the ones about why I think memory so important.
But what if the more you read them, the more you enjoyed them. Not likely, but, still.
Why would YOU want to know why I find memory so important, anyway?
I have had a few stressful extended moments whilst canoeing, as well.
Please notice that I have not dicscounted the potential positive benefits one might get from canoeing or therapy.
That last sentence sounded like a disclaimer, and indeed was one. Did that come about because I’ve been thinking a lot about lawsuits?
I wonder why I might be thinking a lot about lawsuits lately.
I’m just kidding. Almost joking. I know why I’ve been thinking a lot about lawsuits lately.
In an effort at some engagement of late, I've been asking direct questions to any potential readers, should there be any. Although I realize it’s a poetry device that is used on occasion without the author or anyone else involved, fictional or real, expecting to get a response.
Nevertheless, I’ll note here that it’s not that I expect a response, because I don't.
It's just that I would like to have a few responses to my direct questions to the folks who may be reading these poems, should there ever be a soul or two reading them.
This poem has been a send-up or an homage to Chen Chen, whose latest book I have just began reading.
His latest book is entitled “Your Emergency Contact Has Experienced an Emergency.”
I have a small, coffin-shaped apartment that offers me extensive therapy that is not paid by any insurance.
I am soon to move out of this home, for which I am grateful, having lived here for over four years now.
That prospect makes me very giddy and to that I say the sooner the better.
True or False: Therapy is a digging oneself out of situations that we either brought upon ourselves or the circumstances arose unexpectedly in such ways that the fault(s) cannot be attributed to us or else they exist due to some combination of both.
Yet, you were “splendid.” You have answered every question. —John Ashbery
Would that answering each query lobbed at me meant getting each “correct.” I’d rather appreciate keeping my artistic distance this
evening. Any objections? I heard none (someone shouted “Liar!”), but I’m not listening [cupping hands over ears making noises as if could not at
all communicate, even if tried]. Oh, sorry, company’s arrived. And I’m exhausted (would that there were a sofa into which I might resolutely sink).
I woke up this morning in a panic, put on the top half of a suit, logged in just in time for what turned out to be an old school phone call. Somehow, it
appeared that I’d caught up with myself. Come to think of it, that was yesterday.
If I were you I’d get an unlisted number then think about growing up, just a little. —John Ashbery
We all make presumptions. Sometimes it’s presumptuous not to. At this point, a total stranger, and hopefully not, but quite possibly, the person known more than just rhetorically as your emergency
contact, twists his spine, inverts his fingers, stretches his legs out absolutely horizontal to the floor, bobbles his head a bit in preparation for a jerk to the left and a jerk to the right, each jerk has his face ninety degrees at odds
with his pre-twisted spine, all to the hoopla of a six year old attacking a slab of bubble wrap that fits atop the entire living room floor. Pop-poppity-pops that cruise swiftly into a flourish of rattatat-tats and then into
a crescendo of rolled r’s that last about as long as the movie credits. Oh, him? He’s not a bad habit fomenting at the tip of your tongue. Nah. He’s that frothing case of human rabies that sweeps you off your feet,
and then deposits you in the gutter during the splendor of a springtime storm. And the thunder claps make way for that particular downpour of what he likes to call “nutcracking hail-balls.”
What you see and what you hear depends a great deal on where you are standing. It also depends on what sort of person you are. —C.S. Lewis
The boyfriend with the lisp (that’s me!) gets asked by the dairy queen to say slushy seven times without taking a breath. The joke about how Noah’s
arc was more of a ninety degree angle. She smells sequels by the sherbet stand. But which flavor? Of all the sorbets in all of the soirees,,,, If you’re vanilla (like me!)
you tend to go the route that’s most universally recognized as correct. Obsessive compulsive disorders, I’ve known a few, but the anal-retent ive pilferers take the cake. The fruitcake. So
what if I am the only person in the universe that I have even partially come to know. I spend my holidays getting to know Carmen Miranda’s dirty little secret and the bruised yellow laundry unfolds a pleasant memory.