7-7-97

(Another poem found in the annals of my Brother word processor years. Who knows when this was originally drafted.)   Poetry runs                     through                                 my                                     fingertips. Music plays                     in                      my                          brain. I cannot explain. Is it joy? Is it pain? Will it be sunny? Will it be rain? I cannot

4/27/97

(This was written while I was living in Lawrence. This was a pretty good year. I was working as a prep cook in the mornings at Buffalo Bob’s Smokehouse (R.I.P) and enjoying life. Wonderful times, beautiful women, and lots of laughs. I treasure that year.) That night was so dark, with an electric sky, like