Del Ray Cross
The hack of putting pen to paper
in order to park a record of existence
is a screwball comedy.
It’s a nuisance and charms me.
A happy red blister on the thumb of my face.
I mean it’s 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 there’s 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.