And another, “one-night-at-a-time,”
operational description of THIS: 
Painting oneself into a corner
until the corner doesn’t exist.


In this one “never-never…”,
(well – almost never-land),
everyone’s final words are both brilliant
and incomprehensible.


Part of religion’s appeal
lies in the intellect’s yearning
for habit.


While quietly climbing a short tree over in the City Park, I found this note laying on a lower limb;
in its entirety it said, “The kind of person who won’t change their mind, is the same sort who used to court my sister when she lived out behind my frontal lobes.”


In regard to things he should hear about,
this one king – guy – janitor, would adamantly insist
(except on leap year Sundays) that he,
“Didn’t wanna hear about it.”  (The balancing act
of the most commonplace mind will put to shame
the most dead of tight-rope walkers.)