Del Ray Cross
Poems

The hack of putting pen to paper
in order to park a record of existence
is a screwball comedy.
Its a nuisance and charms me.
A happy red blister on the thumb of my face.
I mean its an instance,
like saying I was here.  Or more at
I am here.  No probably less at that.

The crack of writing is always an act.
I write less words than I hues to.
Always the yellow road is less cold
with a bullet in my ink.
My poems are pretty good
when I have a nice transmission.
I drive through the crack like a distance,
scribbling little bruises into the median.
Tiny little ears of ink settle upon each tissue of flimflam
until theres a whole book of em.

I hack in order to park
on an instant.  Sometimes even parallel,
which is great fun
and can often result in a haxident.

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