Del Ray Cross – Six Postcard Poems

Del Ray Cross

Six Postcard Poems

Wings  (2/1/07)

“I still have the writing of it going on inside me.” (Notley) I have no resistance. Pain is a demon.  It’s a charade.  We all make adjustments for love— in order to create a character. Split open the fruit and wait for the ghost.  Ghosts can come at any time of the day (not night).  This (I write this in France.  It makes no sense at the time.) would be compromise. Nothing less simple.  Spitting work underwater (at each other).  Get lost. Back to Back  (2/6/07) A brain’s use on television is not monitored until mid-way when the gears are switched.  Good luck with that.  We fold over into each wall, north and south.  The fog doesn’t know how to grease love’s thick memory—it just takes hold.  & I won’t squeal about it cuz we’re not given adequate measurement tools. That requires hypnosis.  You tag each file with haute graphics from next C son til the powder breaks your neck. Say “Look, I made a tattoo under the hairs on your meat.”  Then you come home with another.  It’s different meat. This one looks rhetorical, like a Cig nature scrawled into the sand.  I say hello to it (“hi”) and the greeting burns our egos; each bleeding its last magic onto the books we aren’t reading. Dedication  (2/9/07) Usually former lovers appear in aggregate, flipping cellphones as they approach.  But this time I held a carton of milk to my ribs, closed my eyes, and waited. Officer, he had reached a maturity. His eyes would glow as he peeled labels off beerbottles.  His eyes, his cokebottles.  He drank but the wisps his frame would allow. Here is the real story.  I can’t make it up.  Last night as I sauntered listlessly in front of the new mall, I saw a ghost.  It is simple to say there was nothing to do but follow it. (U) (U) (U)  (2/15/07) there being no O tonight being too much close to noise to make a cave keep the book as a sleep in it closes up the room – cave deep walks over to get some air A    another air fall in   (M)(E) something to make it clear U are rich U leave in walks the street I which it opens you up takes you down no end puts you on Castabout  (2/24/07) Old Italian families.  Impoverished designers become involved.  That’s what the citizens pays us to do.  The process is a scandal unparalleled in the annals of an idiot, an actress from the red carpet who was conscientious.  She had the lily and as soon as I found out I can smell the fire but I can’t read it. A series of Italian meetings.  A version of the Brahms second concerto.  The pale grey hammer of a thundercloud tending toward light music potboilers. Metallic rhinestones. The rip-off list grows daily. Critically Naked  (2/26/07) I love the French people.  Are they playing it tight and hot to the mainstream tastes?  Yes!  Gwyneth Paltrow, for example, what exactly she grows up to: turned up in a red halter dress and tried, already in decline, when she was given a blank check because its artists she ripped off. What else?  Oh who could explain the endless chain of Beethoven’s farewell sonata from a wheelchair? And Penelope Cruz, her entrance a pale and rehabilitative saffron taffeta whatever.  It all happens so fast who would have time to record opinions? Her.  She recorded more than 100 CDs caged in five chains and a bodice.

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