A word is a dangerous thing to swing in a crowded room.

We've had our wisdom wrung from emotion's sponge and yet it still drips

uch is the lrony and the Cruel Facts: we all sail toward our Rainbow's End fated to build the boat we are sailing on. Our Rainbow, we suddenly realize was built along the way and will be there only if we built it as we sailed along the high seas bringing it with us to Rainbows' End.

How sad. The Past happens so soon and is never reconvened.

We drag our former lover like dead poets into the future bound and gagged in the truck of the car because all pastloves are Dead Poets; who are unloved by poet lover now and we ignore their muffled cries in the rear; driving toward the future; tamping down the present with a finger dipped in past and jaded memory. We smother old loves put them away in the dark closet because New Love most often doesn't share our love of Former Poetries.

We're just taking the rotation game by game at this point. We'll see how it goes.