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)
Del’s PayPal account representative called. She says the $100 he’s been waiting for two weeks to arrive in his business account has been in his personal account for two weeks, but that his personal account is blocked, since it was canceled 5 years ago for lack of payment for two Chevron charges that he insists (and still does) were not
his. About an hour later, Del
called to remind you that this is not a pop ular ity con test. Says, Stiff upper lip. Tread warily. That sort of thing. What he seemed most excited about, the very reason for the call, I’d surmise, was to invite you to a party he’s throwing this Saturday afternoon. There’ll be hopscotch (he’s com missioned four artists who’re currently painting away at his lawn), croquet and (Of course! he chimes) fancy photobooths. I dislike these messages, I say, aloud, but whimpering,
who is broke and confused now? Something indeed seems quite off.
In twilight’s hush, where steam engines sigh Amidst forgotten tomes and dusty skies A melancholy airship sails by With cargo holds of forgotten sighs
The captain’s log, a tome of worn leather Chronicles tales of love, loss, and weather A pocket watch ticks on, a loyal friend As the ship sails on, till journey’s end
In the cargo bay, a phonograph plays Echoes of jazz, in a bygone day A gramophone’s gentle, crackling voice Whispers secrets, of a forgotten choice
The stars above, a celestial sea Guide the airship, on its destiny Through skies of wonder, where dreams unfold A tale of magic, yet to be told
Del called to let you know that he’s finally figured out what’s been different since the Big Rumble; that he now knows the woes of his own obstacles. The first one is that he can’t find the electrical sockets, so no more connection, no more engagement, thanks to no more frolicking zip and no more frolicking zap. The second one, and he says that there may be a bit of a chicken and egg conun drum here, as if that even mat ters, he notes, but… the second one is the pariah thing. He says he thinks he’s men tioned this one before, like out of nowhere, as an issue of some sort, but as something he may have brought upon himself, he assumed it might be sort of phase he could wriggle out of. But now he knows the truth. Now he knows it’s just a thing. A thing that has no doubt irrevocably changed him, that cannot be reversed, just like the no connection with electricity thing, just like the dissapeared elec trical sockets. So he says with ‘definity’ that these characteristics, these features, the ones that are most resound ingly new since the Big Rumble, they now simply make up who he is and will be, at least ever since that wretched day. He’s not arguing or saying any thing with any hope or positivity or even negativity. These are just the two things that are different about him since then. That’s it. That’s all he wanted to relay. He says he’ll call again next year for sure.
It was the end of another era. I had broken my reading glasses. This happened, I want to say often? But it hasn’t been often that I’ve afforded such luxuries. I could add these days but fail to comprehend at the moment how to succinctly discern them from any other. With any distinction. Although to begin, I could squeal how once upon a time that might’ve been the glitter that defined. I squinch my eyes into a steep scarp trying to make something out of this. But slap the alarm, who am I kidding? Unlike the gorgeous sky, were it not so damned dark, I’m downright indistinguishable.
Predictably, I have begun this piece with a title. And for this piece, that’s all I had to begin with, no other ideas, just a title
scribbled weeks or so ago, in hopes that something might follow that would be of any relevance or inspira tion. There are other ways these
words can be of interest. They might literally be a set of instructions for a procedure that has eluded the reader for quite some time, and/or could be
utilized invaluably from this point forward, saving the reader time or adding value.
My Phony Baloney-land or, Utopia’s Stunning Dose of Pretense Is Quite a Kick in the Teeth!
I’m certain that I’m missing something terribly integral here, but sometimes it’s nice to just roll with these little notions that seem so poignant when they first creep into con sciousness. Tonight I’ve some
how gotten sidetracked into del ving into the heart of my con flicted feelings about pretense, for which, in my typical geminian way, I’ve had a lifelong love-hate thing, wherein I cravenly seek out and at the same time have utter
contempt for the fake of it all. Phony baloney is to my mind entirely too prevalent, inescap able now. So my next thought is how pretense, in and of itself, seems so often to me to either be a class construct or a criminal one.
And these two particular avenues into the swamp of surreality are, whether or not one is conscious of even traveling either route, anti thetical to what I’d consider my idea(l) of living well; they’re quite problematic, downright cruel. Then
I remember that this living and being NOT oneself is what “lies” at the heart of theatrical, and of cinematic. This thought, that my art form, or at least the one to which I am indebted, the one because of which I am still deeply in debt, and that for which I (quite
proudly, I should add) have two paper degrees, a fact for which I hold not even one ounce of regret, is, at its core, by its very nature, constrained indelibly by a long set of rules on del ivering in the most convincing way, dishonesty. It is the art of being UN
real. So, with my brain duly evapo rated, I decide it’s time to stave off these all-too-dandy-and-overwhelm ing thoughts, to hit pause on “big thinking” until I’m up to it again. And sure enough, I’ve got what I at first think the perfect antidote
coming right up. For I can see right here in my calendar just the thing: it is time for the latest round with my
This is condescending, by the way. So in that spirit, what’s with the mirror in this piece.
There are tons of them all over the place,
in general. But found in this genre, they most often exist individually. And just to elevate
things, if you can’t see vibrating
(forceful or otherwise) silhouettes somewhere in the gloss of the moment of the mirror’s first appearance in said work of art, then we call that foreshadowing. I’d say this is the kind that is mostly mere indication, a positive thing, rather than
anything that spells general or specific doom.
It might be so positive that, should the viewer(s) be thinking critically of film, in any conscious way, it would likely be unintentionally, or so I would assume, given that it is one of our genres that is least associated
and even perhaps quite rarely adjacent to the notion of, I’m gonna introduce the potentially derailing term artistic or academic or geek-associative, criticism, wherein foreshadowing is a mechanism whereby we, the audience, might (over)think, much less splice and/or extricate and/or debate/detail this normally elevated often complex or debatable or aha! literary device. It would and should normally just pass us by, such a generically standard set piece in this kind of thing. We’d
ordinarily be thoughtless to its presence, unless
in an expectant way. That is, if any thought even
were to go into such a thing. The thought might
come bearing down us once the set piece is literally
utilized. Thanks to the reflex of being mind-numbingly
beaten into the general psyche’s zeitgeist’s or populous’
kink-zone, this particular and next to ubiquitous set piece,
given its purpose (rather than any representation, a literal
function). In actuality, when it is, let’s say, put into play,
and I could be wrong about the noticeability vs. well,
of course it’s there vs. the looking ahead, oh, wait, I can
already sense a quite significant thoughtful reason for its
placement, again, most often in retrospect. Such that
literal, visceral fast-forwarding might immediately transpire thanks to an initial non-use of it. It being,
again, one of the most frequent set pieces in this,
probably our most prevalent artistic genre. In fact,
perhaps our most lauded genre; a genre we might call
our official national genre, should such an association be
multi-tasking. All pastiche, checkin’ out some Nope,
smokin’ down with dope’s Pope. & every
thing else. Caught Puccini at the Met, maybe twice, let’s just say. Took in some Queen while makin’ some snappy sandwiches, a family picnic, al dente, sprung from Mercury’s
range, all the while, with a wand swimmin’ in spangle and a finger curled all cumm’ere;
she brought us one by one out of the hiding corners and the shadows’ bilges….and then, double double, she
festooned it all with an UNtoiled unpredictability that, eyes now opened so, swam upstream, another mystery’s brainwashed misery gone awhile.
Is anyone paying attention to politics, to political polls, as they’d (who’d?) have us believe? And if they are,
well, paying attention to what ever’s hot and whatever’s not – in general – which, surely some body is, wouldn’t it be nice to
sort of have a look at those as our noses go back toward those trends in politics. Which, yes, they tell us loud and clear,
are just trends? Because I for one am worried. And might that give some help? What are people singing these days?
Oh. Do I know this one? Am I afraid to actually ask? Frankly, depending on how I’m dosing on anti-anxiety medication, I’m afraid
of just about everything I hear these days, which is mostly the news, so it could be my problem, being a devotee of news. No. I know getting everyone
all worked up is a mental health disaster, but what about the other disasters, ment al health or no? I mean despite whether or not. I mean, what are the chances
that basic trends might tell us all we need to know on such matters? Is anyone looking into this?
a mash-up of medicine bottles shoved up to the file bins atop the lower right leg quarter of my bed’s mattress cover. the cover has a purple flower-themed design. the flowers are white, though, it’s the background that’s purple, the color which i’ve proclaimed most of my life is my favorite. my biggest small fan is right at my hip as i type, turned on high, as always, and aimed right at me. amongst the pill bottles: airwick fresh new day fresh waters scent air freshener spray; a smart- looking red mouse with a ‘logi’ imprint; a yellow sticky-note pad, on the top page of which is written “it’s the memiest meme-stock in all of meme-land,” which, as i recall, is kara swisher quoting someone else about truth social; a pink water bottle, empty; a mostly full roll of paper towels; a small tube of ‘body lotion,’ beige in tint; a couple of pairs of underwear and a hoodie jacket, the one i wear most often when i am out of my apartment, which i have not been at all in several days now, only just recovered from a bout of this horrid nausea and digestion problem that has had me in the emergency room five times in the last three or so months; ‘ever spring’ brand ‘down- to-earth solutions that are up to earth’s standards’ streak-free glass cleaner; a pink eye-glasses container that belongs to the pair that i’m currently wearing; and a couple of random sheets of paper that belong in one of three bins that line the right side of my bed, the bins filled with files marked ‘urgent,’ ‘to file,’ ‘to read,’ etc.
i’m not fragile. i don’t like to think of myself as fragile. i think i’m most often not very fragile. i suppose that sometimes i can be, every once in a while, historically. it has happened. just not very often. i don’t like to think i am ever fragile because help is something i was led to believe (in a skewed manner, but with unrelent ing intensity) was somehow unmanly, which is bad, was something that would reduce my independence, independence being one of the virtues of all virtues, all-important. and there were lessons, it was perhaps a very foundation of my education, i think. it taught me how to avoid being emasculated, a word in which the whole problem is, here i go, encapsulated. i’m less fragile than almost anyone i’ve ever known. that was a brag. i’m not perfect, of course. name some things that are wrong with me.
like a lot of life, right? choir practice in undergrad used to be a wonderful way to pass the time between what we thought was the important stuff.
on our nature walk on that particular day the cattails were weird, but so pretty – their normally brown fuzzy tops curled into the shapes of tiny umbrella handles. they were purple, i think.
purple is a color i often get confused. i’m not color blind or anything, but i do confess i wind up staring at whatever it is and mouthing all sorts of things. like violet, aquamarine, magenta, fuchsia, spindrift, amber, umber, and other colors the hues of which i cannot seem to clarify in my head at ordinary moments.
purple is my
favorite color.
but college choir tour, springtime of 1988, the first year i was ever in love. one rainy night in magnolia, i held the umbrella for both of us. i had actually packed an umbrella. imagine that, me the responsible one. walking from the methodist church where we performed to each of our respective sponsors’ homes for the night. ours turned out to be a funeral home. the place was huge and we were giddy and felt the embodiment of romantic, scouring the dozens of rooms for caskets that weren’t empty, imagining the shag carpets between the twin beds were pathways through lavender gardens where we could get lost and miss the morning bus. surely nobody’d miss us. and even if they did, they’d never find us, the tall aromatic stalks twice our height and then some.
Childhood living Is easy to do The things you wanted I bought them for you —from “Wild Horses,” by The Rolling Stones
“hey, pioneer!” was the hiss & i was pissed. my gun’s a ghost, the sheriff’s toast & wild horses couldn’t drag me away from this hellhole. this badge is just a couple of melted shotgun slugs and we go way back. i traded a revolver for this here holster and a couple of these dinged up posters. i know you’re all shot up, but you look good, man. you’d be roiled with worms and a fathom down into the depths of the quickest swamp and you’d still
bring back a demon’s heartbeat. and you had to go and lock your hawk’s aim targeting the stuttered hiccoughing rhythm of mine.
