I found some poems of mine from my rec.arts.poems days that I'd forgotten, and discovered a gratifying discussion from August 2006 of one of my poems, with a reference (a writer's dream) to 1990 being "the year of Rae on r.a.p"
Poetically, this one is kind of mundane but I laughed when I came across it again. This is as close as I've come to trying to justify my embarrassing preference of genre fiction over good literature.
I never can finish a non-fiction book
I don't read good fiction;
I don't want to linger over language
when romance and plot propel me to conclusion;
quick reads are my forte
in the Novel
Ah but the slow rich colors
(and there is only one category
of the form)
Every thread stitched carefully to
blend brocade, linen and trim
to royal weighty glide of cloth;
Theology is the dress of queens
and the empress's new clothes;
I finger each square inch of cloth
but will never close the final hook
I never can finish a non-fiction book.