Words About My Words...

Here I share my stories. They are listed by posting date, but few are date-related. Some may be tired, but none are old. I hope you find something you like, as these readers did...

"...written so beautifully, like a quiet and personal evening at Meditation Garden.... I so want my friends to read this."
~Alicia Nowak
Commenting on "Dear Elvis"
"Damn Kerry, you can WRITE."
~Luke Ayd
"You could replace Peter Egan at Road and Track [magazine]."
~Joseph Alexander
"Each time I read your work, you grab me by the collar and take me along, I'm RIGHT there with you. I truly hope one day you write a book."
~Don Johnson

How To Navigate This Page...I know, rules, right?
Click "Read More" to read a full story. Use the "Older" and "Newer" links at the bottom of this index page to load more stories. Use the Tag and Category links below each story's date to see similar stories. To return to this index click the "WORDS" link in the navigation bar or the "ALL" category below a story. Mostly, however, enjoy, and if you do, please share.

Music is Memories

"There is a universal language to be sure, math and one of its sublime dialects...music. Your story hits on both. Bravo." ~James Hamman DDS

"Sweet memory. I have some of the same. Beautifully written, as always." ~Martha

As with the smallpox virus, I believed the last remaining copy of “Islands In The Stream” had been sequestered. I believed debates were ongoing for its incineration, so nothing would remain of it but horrific stories of personal suffering, and painful memories of tragic dates. I believed wrong.

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Functional. Art.

"What a poetic heart you have...." ~Kelly Mcclary

This essay originally appeared on the Bowlus Road Chief LLC Website.

By my definition functional art does not need to move, but it must move the portion of your body that cannot be weighed, measured, or X-rayed to a place that cannot be plotted on a map.

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Kerry and Hobbes

Thinking of Hobbes, an inanimate object, as a companion is silly…or is it? Was Hobbes, the tiger in Calvin and Hobbes for whom "my" Hobbes is named, real? To everyone but Calvin he was a stuffed animal. But Calvin saw him differently. Calvin had a relationship him. He was a friend, a muse, a partner in crime. He was integral to Calvin's life.

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Dear Elvis

"...written so beautifully, like a quiet and personal evening at Meditation Garden.... I so want my friends to read this." ~Alicia Nowak

Maybe your purpose was to shred our transistor radio speakers, sneer on our black and white TV screens with over-saturated movements, change everything, inspire everyone, and then beat a hasty exit the same way you dashed off stage after each performance on The Ed Sullivan Show.

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How To Thank A Veteran

Minutes passed. I don't know how many. Many. Our small bags grew heavy. Our grip on them grew weak. Our knees trembled from equal parts fear, cold and fatigue. Our shoulders sagged. What was this game? How long would it go on? What am I doing here? Can I just proclaim this a terrible mistake – a stupid decision – and go home?

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Without A Plan: Part 1 - The "Plan"

I used nature’s disdain for a vacuum to my selfish advantage when I planned my first motorcycle trip. The Plan – if it could be called a “plan” – was dirt simple. Above all else this was a motorcycle trip and, in that spirit, detailed plans were avoided. The details, I was confident, would fill themselves in.

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Without A Plan: Part 2 - The Pink Elephant

I walked out of the Pink Elephant nearly two hours after I walked in. I was warmed, well fed, awake, and uplifted by this place and these people that I had found simply because I had no plan, no timetable, and allowed myself to venture away from the convenience and commonality of the highway interchange.

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Without A Plan: Part 3 - Back Roads, Small Towns, Rain

I was still without a route or timetable but my need for sleep had been squelched by four cups of coffee and the opportunity to rest and warm up in the Pink Elephant. The guiding principal of the trip was unchanged; let The Plan find me and remain, as much as possible, on back roads. 

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Without A Plan: Part 5 - Left at the Crossroad

I approached a guard shack, appropriately occupied by a grey-haired man sporting a clipboard and black rain slicker, and inquired about entry. Perhaps he figured a person riding a motorcycle in the rain seeking access to a performance-driving event must belong there, and by not questioning my credentials he also did not question my sanity.

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Without A Plan: Part 6 - Muskegon's Waterfront

At eighty mph the bike disappeared beneath me – bike, rider, and road becoming a single harmonious unit. I was more flying three feet above the concrete than riding a machine. Yes, I was violating my No Interstates rule, but it was my rule to break and I am a biker, dammit, that is what we do.

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Without A Plan: Part 7 - Bikers On A Boat

Formal introductions were never made. Our clothing identified us to each other as one of the other bikers and no one took the initiative to extract names. But we clicked immediately to the chagrin, I'm sure, of the young post-grad who had settled the booth first and attracted the rest of us like Protestants to a potluck.

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Without A Plan: Part 8 - Biker Image

Under the black helmet, behind the dark sunglasses, beneath the black leather gloves, black jacket, and distressed jeans rode a man called Danger who is never late for work, never takes more than one penny from a “Take a Penny” tray, and tidies up his table for the busboy.

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Unexpected Destinations: A Story of Time Travel

In the movies time travel happens instantly, often with stunning effects. In real life it took some time – two hours and forty-two minutes on this particular morning – and went unnoticed until I exited the aircraft. Behind me, to the west and into the weather, lay my past. In front of me, to the east and into the sun, lay my future.

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