The good thing (?) about looking for stuff is that, occasionally, I run across other stuff, such as the aforeposted porch and station wagon picture.

Tucked away in the pages of the 2004 calendar were some ramblings of mine from 2003, back when I used to post on a site hosted by a kind soul named Clarke. (He’s also an excellent musician, and you can find some of his songs here.) I haven’t been in touch with Clarke for a while now, but he helped me get through an extremely tough time in my life, and I will always be grateful for his patience and understanding.

Anyhoo, I dabbled in (bad) poetry back then.


nights like tonight oh
how I miss her

glorious snow powder turned to
sleet turned to

she took my vanilla life
turned it into butterscotch
hot fudge caramel w/pecans
whipped cream cherry on top
sundae morning
happily exhausted
being up too late
saturday night


Fire Escape Romance

Chocolate milk through
swirly straws

hopscotch, tag
and monkey bars

hand-in-hand we
run so far

that no one can catch up.

Castor, Pollux
are our stars

shine and sparkle
past all tears

late-night mornings
draw you near

and pray to not wake up.


January 31, 2003

she watches

snow come down

white fluffy feathers
fall all around.


Gash Wednesday

I haul my ass
into Ash Wednesday Mass
no idea when to stand or kneel or
“Stand up! Sit down! Fight, fight, fight!”
what the Holy Water’s for.

Hell, I am not Catholic.
I am Methodist. Aries.
And moderately histrionic,
according to the latest quiz.

But I need

And if I give up 7 things
for Lent,
and say a thousand Hail Marys …

well, maybe.

So a priest whose name
I mistakenly believe to be
Father Von Trapp, just like
the singers, dips his fingers
in palm-leaf soot, traces a
cross on my forehead with
his pudgy thumb, reminding
me of the fat-handed doctor
the day I had sprained my
ankle racing Case back from
Marty’s, twisting my foot this
way (ouch!) and that way (ouch!)
and asking, “Does this hurt?”
every time, oblivious to every
sound I had made, sending me
on my way with nothing more
than an Ace bandage because, he
said, he’s “not impressed
enough to take an X-ray.”

I leave the church with a willow
branch and hope, still knowing
I cannot
make it all the way to Easter.


Love Amongst the Ruins

Every time I open my
fucking mouth to speak

the words sound/feel
so absolutely hollow.

It seems as if the divide
between us is as wide

as the Grand Canyon
(where I have never been)

with you on one side
and me in, like, Ohio.

So I want to grab your
hand and run off together

to the ruins of Chichén Itzá
(where I have been, once)

and stand at one side
of the Great Ball Court

“A whisper from one end can be heard clearly at the other end 500 feet away and through the length and breadth of the court. The sound waves are unaffected by wind direction or time of day/night.”

with you on the other, and
whisper three little words

that actually really matter.


She drove a Chevy Nova.

Pumpkin pie-colored 2-door
with a white vinyl top.

(VERY hip in those days. Trust me.)

Snapped her Doublemint during
class. Taught me all 50 states and
capitals and a major export of each.
32 years later, I still remember.

(Go ahead. Ask me.)

Showed me that it was OK
not to throw like a girl because
she didn’t, either. Wrote with
the most excellent handwriting,
all perfectly lined-up and loopy,
even on the chalkboard.

(Not an easy task. Watch me.)

Even her name: Miss Kull.
Pronounced “cool.”
And how cool is THAT?