Tuesday, February 27, 2007


They say the best laid
gang aft agley,
but if we had to scrap the ones we’ve made
where would we be?

Though it’s arguable
if cooked eggs hatch,
wouldn’t our days be simply too miserable
if we didn’t sit a clutch?

Plans structure days.
A basic minimum
keeps the prefrontal mayonnaise
out of the temporal jam,

yet the structure’s fiction.
Our purest fantasies
are real as our most serious predictions,
our chiseled destinies.

Reality’s rarely kind.
Life is a bitch.
The farsighted reliably lead the blind
into the usual ditch.

So let’s make plans,
have lunch, a drink.
We’ll catch each other as catch we can,
next week, you think?

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