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)
I build this thing of how I feel and who I was and what I do to pin down and get within reach—perhaps among other things—of who I am and what I want. It’s
on display (this thing), my clumsy efforts just to see and say and hew through all the ugly and the beauty—and the freedom, tense with insistent constraints—of the now
(all of which pass swiftly by). And this I do to try to know (and yet I never do) a bit of how to live among you and remain (and yet so publicly?) as curious and con
tent as humanly I might, while ever near ing who I truly am and where I best will be.
In what specific cases should one re state a thing they’ve already stated, perhaps innumerable times (Is this art?), exactly as they’ve said it before;
verbatim? Not a question for poetry
(Obvy). It stung as if by dart [comme par un fléchette!] when he yelped: Grandmaaa!! How embarrassingggg!!
Don’t you have some candy you need to crush?! This, the butt of a joke re layed at the end of a bit in which those words would’ve been directed
at none other than Grandmama Hill ary Rodham Clinton. [C’est de l’art.]
Who needs a break? Are you looking at the tv, out the window, at your knees or onto the darker side of your eyelids? I met the 6th and 7th hurdles in an interminable set of interviews this week (yes, for the same job). No
word back yet. Need to buy a new pair of dress shoes, deodorant, some super glue, a new belt, Scotch Pads, a new charger for my Alexa (which has me sounding like I’m complaining a bit too loudly, I suppose), file folders,
dish liquid and laundry detergent, which I’ve used to clean all clothes and cloth items by pail in my coffin-sized hotbox for the past couple of years. And that isn’t as long as I’ve refused to step into the shower here. I bathe in the sink.
It’s even too disgusting and sad to use the one toilet at the end of the hall that, on the rare occasion, is usable.
No Coda as of Yet (what if shrinking time makes no room for its appearance?)
I could. Say what you mean. This must make sense. What would be the point if no parable could be derived from this garbled lack. Fate lies in our hands now. “But what about the inevitability of censorship?” says some
kid in the balcony who may or may not have raised their hand beforehand (I’m not wearing my glasses). I walk all the way up and hand him the textbook, which is half theory and half fiction. And maybe a smidge of
poetry, but who’d know? “We expand the arts and the natural sciences,” the professor says. I profess that I’m not a firm believer in the evolution of a species, anthro pologically speaking, of course. I mean, my feet may
seem to stand upon a firm slab of desiccated terra firma. But how can anyone negate the facts? We’re all doomed.
The Pile of Words Dithers No Matter Their Cumulative Geometrical Guise
Make one, I did. Not your trad itional music playlist. Almost no music at all. We can go through and, one by one, discuss each.
Hone that list. I would like to begin by going over the 5 x 5 questions and answers we developed at our last meet ing. Picture graduate school in Greece.
It’s pretty isn’t it? Erase that photo. Pur chase a TV. I mean a tv-sized monitor for all of the most intense chemistry and math and geometry. Follow up on plans
since nobody goes to college anymore. Gather in another week for 3rd brainstorm.
No, or, well, yes. But no. I don’t know. But is this not a fundamental question of what we do, those of us who cannot help but ‘pen’ such piffle
and then audaciously put it out there for people like you to scrutinize? To someone with a related degree or three, this question might seem pedantic, but
I prefer to call it basic. Connect with Renata Blender (Spender?). Work with Rafa to get M&Ms set up at every meeting involving Sarah (she’s the boss and she
loves them, presumably; why would I remember such things?). I miss this?
Welcome to the Berkeley cornucopia. What if I’ve got nothing else? That’s a personal question and I am very sorry. It’s quite possible that I don’t even want
an Armageddon. I walk fast and mumble/ with my head turned (E. Berrigan). So, then, reverse the question. Are you an archeologist or an ecologist (digging
fossils)? Dissect morality. Sit down and eat some ageism; breakfast is always taken for granted. The veneer of this paradise/is bedbugs and parasites (Ed Berrigan again).
Don’t preach until you’ve stuck your nose in it long enough. Eat pope dust. Prop up a poet.
unintentional bug spray. bug bins; bins of no bugs. new set of shears, very intentional. printer cartridges are on the list as a sort of game, a
will he or won’t he, and thus far and perhaps always, he won’t. the marvels, beginning to end, sitting upright with no back rest after being in a veritable
coma for four days (said coma prece ded by night in the emergency room, an instance that occurs now with alar ming regularity). note to mistaken
schenectady: i’m rather elated; better educated; letter redacted—post comma.
is it any wonder that with such a vast land so full of idiots to harvest ... which included many of the various villages’ elders, let’s be honest ... many of whom
saw it coming initially ... most of them quickly resigned themselves to the inevit ability; some were rendered useless— more idiots to reap—letting anxiety and
apocryphal lore get the best of them; and there were the few who believed they’d be the catalyst for change ... right ... so ... in the end, all but the strongman had been
rendered impotent ... it was a gorgeous and fertile land that was brimming with idiots ...
Reading the Noodles on the Wall (without the assistance of eyeglasses)
As a matter of fact, I do not use stone hewn calligraphy sticks. I mean, are they even a thing? I squint even more and discern:
today and butt loom or loon and so I think butt moon, which even I have to admit is a bit romantic. But then—clear as mud and as loud
as a thud—toothpaste? So I’m look ing around for the stick of deodorant that I’ve momentarily forgotten I threw away yesterday (it was an accident; i.e.,
this tale falls apart here), and all I can find are a loaf of bread and a bag of rotini.
