to help navigate my portfolio . . . —

a random array of endorphin rushes . . . — The unshackled way a three-legged dog treats its disability as easily manageable. Dad supported nine kids on dollars a day but I grew up not realizing we were poor. Poor folk, busy noses on grindstones, find time to volunteer more than most. It’s a lifestyle. A helping mindset. Coming home…

to make a lasting impression . . . — I often read sixty pieces a day (or more) on Medium. Lately I’ve been slogging through some lame openings. Most writers are aware of the importance of snagging the reader’s attention by crafting initial paragraphs that draw us in and toss us around, leaving someone eager to read on. …

another shivery gossamer morn . . . — Mere two weeks until the solstice stuck in our seasonal rigor mortis too diaphanous to support this summer is a bridge too far. Times like this I tend to look back summertide spanking like a maniac hens can’t cluck, ducks can’t quack river dwindles to a sandbar. Marine layer makes…

here’s how much you’ve changed me . . . — I used to be hung up on the words: father and dad. Not just words, but also, I’ve been stuck as I consider the overall concept of fatherhood. This is one of many reasons I never had kids. To be frank, I have found it hard to believe that most…

when it’s the easiest thing to do . . . — Lamenting the widespread fascist creep vulgarity that no longer warrants a bleep as the price of breath goes alpine steep I’m content to watch peaceful dogs sleep. Livid deceit prods armies to enthuse instead of leading, leaders light a fuse purging more of our options to choose I’ll opt to see slumbering dogs…

that two months I lost all sensation . . . — Pluck me one reasonable reason for doing a cross-country bike trek if not to shake off, once and for all so many maggot-infested delusions and a fierce end-of-season malaise. With feral intent and gloved palms I hit the pedals thanking firmament for expansive sky to kiss my visions fetching handlebar fondles where lost shards…

pondering my bicycling past . . . — Over my morning slug of java with a splash of Irish Creme, I wake up to the imaginative and illustrious strains of Charlotte Ella King: Two for Tuesday Story Recommendationsmedium.com After perusal, I suggest we all form an informal “Two for Tuesday” club of sharing other creators and their stuff. This pastime need not be…

furtive and momentary, yet lasting . . . — The fickle way remembrances flit propel her mental merry-go-round blistery heels on a trek moonlit piggyback her to the campground. Mindlessly she spies a fussy bird frozen since sprung from her cage lovers try to peg a peculiar word their ruthless craving to assuage. He didn’t need to sing that…