dumping the notebook

a few entries from my notebook.

05/23/2008--Went golfing today. Funny how something so elitist as golf can become an obsession for me. I do feel kind of awkward on the golf course, or maybe self-concesoius is a better term. It's not that I may swing and miss the ball( though I have in the past), more like when I'm there I belong to this macho fraternity, but everyone else around me understands some inside joke I'm not privy to.

05/25/2008--Had a visitor come this weekend from Mpls. We sat outside and cooked out. We sat around the fire most of the night staring at the flames licking the top of the fire pit. He remarked how life seems slow out here. Slow and quiet. He said he likes coming out this way because it's relaxing. I'm going to be honest, I've never thought of my home in that way.

05/26/2008--The graves are cleaned and flowers now adorn the headstones. I didn't weep this year and I don't know how to feel about that... I know it's someone's birthday today, but I can't figure out who... I'm not real sure what memorial day means. Is it a time to picnic, a time to honor fallen vets, honor dead family, or something else?

addendum: check out the poem "decoration day" by adrian louis

Dutch Oven, or an ode to love lost

* A "dutch oven" is the act of farting whilst in bed & under the blankets, followed by covering your significant other's head with the blanket. This procedure is sometimes referred to as a "covered wagon."

I remember the first time we were so intimate
and comfortable with our love
you weren't too embarrassed
after you belched from chugging beer.

Later that night, I decided to pass gas in bed
to give us something to share. A light moment before love.
Foreplay.

I learned your smells so well. I inhaled your dirty shirts
just before I loaded the wash; I kept your hair tie in my pocket
to breathe in the privacy of a public bathroom stall.

Today, I thought I saw you on the city bus, sporting shades,
and a new hair style. I sat in the row behind, hoping
for one quick whiff.

It wasn't you, darling.
And now
your burps and farts are what I miss.

nineteen hundred eighty two (anno domini)

On the Current Weather Situation & Grits

This is where I’m supposed to speak on the sacredness of rain and all its life bearing qualities; this is where I’m supposed to speak on scientific terms about photosynthesis; this is where I’m supposed to praise Mother Nature and be one with earth, sky, moon, and sun; this is where I rapture the natural cycles of life, and give thanks to the seasons, but my roof is leaking and the mosquitoes are biting my legs.


O muse of the Waffle House, sing to me a melody of trucker hats and saw mill gravy. Sing to me a melody of interstate highways segregated by tall southern pines. Let the bass rhythm bellow from blown tires. Allow the damp air to settle over my body like sweat. Muse, I miss your southern drawl, your sweet tea. Give me a hitchhiker’s chance to hear you again.