my newfound craig's list poetry generator

[Selections from the Hampton Roads, VA "missed connections" section for April 2008, edited by yours truly]

you were working at knuckleheads, wearing a purple t-shirt
you walked by and touched me on the shoulder
and told me that it's ok to smile
you left before i could talk to you.
i would like the chance to do so.

You were insisting that we had kissed and we hadn't, then
you just grabbed my face and we made out.
I was wearing the Mets hat.

To the Hula lady at the Wal-Mart
I yelled and asked if you were trying to set a world record
Then I saw you again
I was with my 9 year old daughter, but I stopped
and watched you walk away
enjoying the sway of your hips......

i told you that the parking was free. It was a mistake
they have a box there
i saw as i was leaving.
I hope you did not get a ticket.
Paul

Looking
for the attractive busty brunette
i held hands with
at the saturday night A.A. meeting
at thalia
side door.

I was out your house in Norfolk Last night
your husband called the cops
he said you were going to hurt yourself....but after talking
it was obvious you weren’t going to.
We talked and flirted. The other officer
was outside with your husband. We both know
your reasons for what you did and
I really was attracted to you and
liked you and was so close
to giving you my number
but it was too risky
because of the other cop there (who we both agreed
was kinda weird,
lol).

I work with you and you drive me nuts.
You are in the HR dept at South and just finished college,
leaving soon to go away. I just wanted to let you know
I love the somewhat scratchy voice you have.

I was talking to my boss on the phone when you came in to pick up your big pizza order.
Your change was $5.55, which i said was ironic, and you laughed. You had on
a green/brown shirt, sweatpants, and a beautiful smile.
Let me know
Show me it was you...

J, Why?
How?
Did it not mean anything?
Do not expect sympathy!

You dress so sexy in your burnt orange car.

hello your name is ofelia
you work at dunkin donuts on battlefield
i think you are so sweet
maybe dinner or a movie

You were driving down Bland Blvd in a black wrecker
with Aces on the side of it.
I don't know if you are married.
You have brown hair and you were on the phone,
turning right onto Warwick


I saw you get into your red car at a 7-11 in Hampton.
You were Hispanic with handsome dark brown hair, thinning in the front, and dark eyes with long lashes, wearing leather pants, a duster, and a black t-shirt.
What kind of ring were you wearing on your right hand?
You looked like the devil.
I would've ridden to hell between those thighs.

Dear mexican guy with a hitler mustache...
You made me laugh
when you flipped that bald fat white guy off
who swerved in front of me when we were both heading east
on Shore Drive. I so much want to thank you.

How did you celebrate?

It was the Pope's birthday yesterday. I know because I was listening to NPR and I heard that he spent his birthday on the south lawn of the White House. And then I heard them sing him The Birthday Song. President Bush and 9,000 of the Pope's closest friends and relations sang:

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday...

And at this point, all hell kind of broke loose, so to speak, because really, what do you actually call the Pope when you sing him The Birthday Song? I mean, it seems like a kind of silly proposition anyway. You might wish him Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag I suppose, or maybe the equivalent in Italian or even Latin. You might invite him to bathe in ambergris or anoint his feet or something, but eighty-one is a lot of candles to blow out, and whoever had to bake 9,000 cupcakes better be going to Heaven.

So there was this huge and hearty version of The Birthday Song -- ridiculous enough in and of itself -- but it seems like it wasn't rehearsed in the slightest, because everybody just balked when it came to the third line. Several people, I think, sang "Happy Birthday, Pope Benedict." My favorite, though, was actually the most prominent voice, which sang "Happy Birthday, Holy Father."

I was listening to this delectable sound-bite in my driveway with my car windows down and cackled just in time for my next-door neighbor to hear me and ask if anything was wrong. I tried to explain, but evidently, as so often happens I am the only one who thinks this is funny.

cruel to be kind

Dear next-door neighbor,

I don't remember being invited to your nine a.m. dance party this morning, so thank you so much for reminding me by blaring bad rap music through your living room/my bedroom wall and waking me up. By the way, I feel it is my neighborly duty to unburden you of a certain notion you seem to have: YOU ARE NOT A GANGSTA. Since I know that you're not listening to gangsta rap because it's musically interesting, I can only assume it's because of the heartfelt lyrics. You don't seriously identify with that stuff, do you? Because...yyyyyyeaaaahhhh. Not a gangsta. Those basketball jerseys? Not fooling anyone. You're just a pudgy, fuzzy white college dude with a contrived Blaccent. Would you please turn that shit down, please? A couple weeks ago, we asked you twice, over the span of about ten minutes, and nothing has changed on our end since then.

While you're at it, can you turn down your girlfriend? We've been privy to every knock-down drag-out the two of you have had for a year. We know that you can't be bothered to help out around the house. We know that you don't try and that you take her for granted. We know, because she proclaimed it to the four winds a couple of months ago, that you're the first boy who ever hit her... back. We know that you categorically did NOT hang out with Her on New Year's Eve, since you reiterated this -- verbatim -- about four dozen times by way of compelling argument. For future reference, offering to call Her up on the spot to provide you with an alibi is not the best way to convince your girlfriend that you did not spend the night with Her. In fact, we recommend that you leave Her out of it altogether. It might behoove you to brush up on your rhetorical skills, since your girlfriend has definitely got you beat in the vocal projection department. Jesus, where did you find her? That girl has the pipes of a circus caller.

Now, about the trash. Seriously, where does it all come from? In one week, the neighbs and I can generate roughly three plastic grocery bags plus one recycling bin of refuse (if we're really trying), yet by the end of the week you not only fill up a whole Herbie Kerbie but also the landing down to the basement with garbage of all varieties. Nary a bulk trash day goes by that you don't expel a piece of furniture or carpet or a couple of boxes of random waste. How many couches do you have in there, and what are you doing to them? If I only knew, perhaps I could offer you some tips on where you're going wrong with the furniture.

Evidently, whatever you're throwing away, it's not your empty detergent bottles, because you've taken such a liking to my detergent that I can't leave it in the shared basement any longer. And while we're at it, next time you borrow someone's vacuum cleaner, make sure you empty the canister of all chunks of drywall before you attempt to claim you have no idea why it's broken. These incidents did not start us off on the most auspicious of neighborly relationships, you see.

Just one more thing: can you please spend a little bit more on weed? Because if my apartment has to smell like the ganja from time to time, I'd prefer that it be just a skosh {sp} less skanky.

Thank you for your prompt attention to the above matters. I'm sorry for the mean-spirited sniping. You know, I think I could tolerate it all and even withhold judgment if you were just basically considerate people who listened to bad music and didn't get along so great. But since you're not, all bets are off.

Yours truly,

The Girl Next Door

what we have here is a failure to communicate

Ever had one of those days when you feel like, no matter how clearly and concisely you're expressing yourself, and however logical and reasonable your ideas sound to you inside your head, the moment you try to communicate those ideas to other people they look at you as if you're speaking gibberish or like you're out of your mind? While I have had a number of these days right in my home town, a recent experience suggests to me that by moving several states south I'm letting myself in for a lot more of them.

Mind you, coastal Virginia doesn't consider itself southern. Why, we're just two hours south of D.C, they say. Now, if you go inland from us, then you'll see something. There's this travel-west-to-get-south mentality that seems just about as logical as the Michigan theory that Indiana is the armpit of the universe (which, despite the facts that I myself have Indiana ancestors and can find no explanation for it in personal experience, I feel profoundly and fervently believe).

Anyway, in anticipation of our pending visit to Newport News, I called a management company hoping to set up a couple of apartment showings so we could get a feel for the type of apartment we might rent, what we can get for our money and so on. Now, I don't know if it's company policy, state law or something in between, but the receptionist very quickly made it clear to me that they couldn't show me anything that's coming available in August, but instead only what's available right now. I tried to emphasize that that was okay, that I was just trying to get a feel for the area, but she got downright snippy with me, saying that her company did not traffic in cookie-cutter residences (which was why I called them in the first place, by the way), but that she would put me through to a man named Billy, who might be able to assist me further. So she put me through to Billy, who said, "This is John, how can I help you," which I guess is just how they do things in Virginia, and he continued to address me as a pushy, uppity damn Yankee with a question that was both odd and unreasonable.

Eventually we came to understand one another, a little, I think, and Billy-John agreed to let me give him a holler when I'm in town. I'm thinking and hoping that this is all in my head, and that my misfire with Billy-John and company was not a consequence of my saying "you guys" instead of "y'all" (which I heard myself do at least twice) but instead just one of those things.

A formal apology

Dear Michigan Residents,

I'm sorry about all the snow we had last night. It was my fault. You see, in a few short months' time, I'll be moving to Virginia, and this is why our annual first-day-of-spring blizzard was even bigger and better than ever. The inclement weather is the consequence of Murphy's Law applied to my own exaggerated hatred of winter and snow.

I'm also sorry that it's Leap Year. I take full responsibility for this as well. February is, to my mind, the most insufferable time of year to be in Michigan. As this was the last February I will be spending in Michigan for the foreseeable future, the calendar saw fit to squeeze one more day into it this year.

I apologize for any inconvenience.

Yours sincerely,

etc.

I am the fadstarter

So, I'm about to tell you, dear reader, about this fad I started, and I am predicting one of two outcomes: either you will have a good solid belly laugh at my expense and then immediately adopt the terms I'm going to set forth, or else you will have a good solid belly laugh at my expense and conclude that I am the biggest dork you have ever met and that I have way too much time on my hands. I wouldn't tell you about this fad -- which started as my dirty little secret -- in the first place, but recent events have indicated that I may not be so crazy after all. So here goes:

Every day when I get dressed (every day I'm thinking about it, of course, which is NOT every day), I run through a checklist to make sure I'm wearing the following:

1. Something old. This can be something I've had for a long time or something modern that I acquired second-hand, but a vintage item is my favorite way to satisfy this criterion.

2.) Something new. This can be something I bought new or a newish item I bought used; the point is that it's basically modern and I still feel like I'm sporting something fresh and novel.

3.) Something home-made. I am blessed with friends who are talented knitters, sew-ers, and jewelry-makers, so it's easy enough for me to do this without having to wear the same stocking cap all year round. It's just a comforting, lovely feeling to have something on your person all day long that someone took the time to create for you with their hands. Failing something made especially for me, I'm willing to settle for anything hand-crafted.

4.) Something slightly more fabulous than everything else I have on. If I'm wearing a hoodie and jeans, this could be fancy shoes. If I'm fully decked out already, I usually reverse it and wear something ultra-not-fabulous.

5.) Something clashing. Like opposite-of-the-color-wheel clashing, or at least not strictly accounted for in the rest of my outfit. Silk with tweed, orange with turquoise, and flowers with stripes all count towards this, to give you some idea. It can be small, but it has to be visible.

One item can satisfy multiple categories, but if it runs into three or four of them, it's time to re-raid your closet.

(insert belly laugh here)

You mock, but here's the thing: my cousin laughed her ass off when I first told her, then called me a week later to confess that she was doing it too. My favorite part about this story? She's an independent wardrobe consultant, which means She Dresses People For a Living. So now she gets paid for telling people to follow my five principles, and not by me. Another friend's mom heard my wackaloon theory, adopted the system and instructed her sister in it. So there you go. Maybe not so crazy after all.

If you do these five things -- which by the way are much easier to accomplish than you might think, you'll wear all that stuff that hasn't left your closet for months that you forgot you even had but don't have the heart to throw away. You won't feel the need for a lot of new clothes all the time, because you'll be wearing your own things in different ways. The "old" rule and the "homemade" rule make it pretty green, pretty much guaranteeing that at least part of your ensemble wasn't made far, far away by tiny, tiny hands -- plus, it keeps things unique. You won't try on six outfits and then walk out the door five minutes behind schedule and feeling uncomfortably blah, because you can wake up and say, "Let's see, what do I want to wear today? My purple socks" and you can build a whole outfit around that, just because they're new and they clash with your yellow pants, which are clearly fabulous with the blouse you made (the one that goes great with your grandmother's earrings). Best of all, since these five principles aren't tied to a particular fad, it won't be untrue as soon as the current trends go out of style, but instead adaptable to whatever it is you're into, regardless of your decade of birth, color season or body type.

I know, I know. But go look in the mirror. If you're still reading, you're probably already doing four out of five.

hey teacher lady

If you take it, you won't be able to go tango dancing for like two months.

You don't even know how much they're going to pay you.

You've never taught kids before. You don't even really think you like the little ones, and you're afraid of middle-schoolers.

If you take this job, you won't be able to go anywhere during your spring break.

There's no curriculum in place and you don't know what you're doing.

"I'll take it."

For the past four weeks I've been teaching K-8 at a private school. I was recommended by a friend of mine who is both a graduate of the school and a parent of one of its kindergardeners (who makes a point of mentioning loudly, each time I walk into her classroom on Tuesdays and Thursdays, "I've known you for a long time, right?!" which gives her a certain celebrity status, knowing a teacher). At first I was reluctant to accept the position, feeling I had no qualifications to teach these kids. I'd never taught children before. I'm one of those stodgy academic types. I wasn't sure if I could connect with them. After just one month, though, I'm hooked.

I had thought that middle school would be the easiest for me; they were a little closer, cognitively, to the college students I teach than, say, the first-graders. Instead, they're my next-to-toughest crowd. I hadn't accounted for the social-hormonal component of teaching 5th through 8th grades. Everything is painfully embarrassing and there is a subtext to absolutely everything they say, which you must tap into in order to stay in touch and in charge. After only 40 minutes with them, I am exhausted every time.

3rd and 4th grades have been unexpectedly delightful. They unabashedly love learning and absorb everything I give them. Whenever I ask a question they're so eager to participate and please that they shoot their hands in the air and wave them around, gasping and moaning, even when they don't know the answer. Unlike every other human being on the planet, they love being put on the spot and being the center of attention, even in another language.

1st and 2nd grades are all about classroom behavior and interaction. Hold still, turn around in your seat, hands to yourself, raise your hand if you want to ask a question or answer one. There is a very delicate balance to be struck here between academic content, playful silliness, and pure regimented smack-down. I'm grateful to Jenece, a 2nd-grader who radiates attitude and handles the smack-down almost single-handedly.

Kindergarden is the hardest for me. I'm just not a very sing-songy person, and getting them to follow any instructions at all while imparting content is a little like trying to drive an 18-wheeler and cook an omelette at the same time.

But I love it, all of it. I love it when the homeroom teachers tell me how amazed they are about the progress the kids are making. I love it when the little ones see me in the hallway and hug me. I love how surprised they were when I turned up for the school play.

At the play I bumped into one of my former regular customers at the deli. It turns out his daughter is one of my charges a couple of times a week. I was overjoyed to see him, and when an acquaintance of his asked if I was his wife, he laughed and said I was his other wife, to which I replied, well, sort of. I make him sandwiches and look after his kid. He asked about school and was so sincerely delighted to hear I was getting ready to graduate that I was a little taken aback.

It's good I had this experience. Now I feel like I can teach -- and reach -- anyone. And it's good I had this experience in Kalamazoo, because I feel like I have become a real person who influences lives in this community, in the eyes of real people like my customer (who influences quite a few lives in this community himself, by the way), instead of just hanging out serving yummy sandwiches. It was important, redeeming, somehow, to have that happen here. I never anticipated that would be important, but it was, unspeakably so.

It's hard not to make long-term plans for my pequeños monstruos. In this short time I've grown so much more attached to them than I ever get to my co-eds. There's so much I'd like to do with them, but I've only got a couple weeks left. I'd stay if they'd let me, and if I had the time for it. While I'm not looking forward to the hand-off to their regular teacher, I can't believe how much this brief experience has transformed me and I'm so, so glad I listened to my heart and took the job.