Ruth Wildes Schuler		UNSTABLE Cobwebs shroud the hall clock and I shut my eyes against the passing of time. Pain presses the inner sockets, but decongestive capsules long ago drained my tear-ducts dry. I look out of my dirty window – A screaming blue jay drives a flock of Oregon finches off, not seeing my old cat crouched in spring. Somewhere a Greek chorus chants in the recesses of my unconsciousness, while Freud tries to convince them stallions are a symbolic metaphor for sex. They agree – What chance have I?		PONDERING THIS POET’S PLACE IN POSTERITY Been reading Dylan Thomas’ biography, which seriously set me to thinking about the horrible possibility of people reading MY letters twenty-five years from now. Can’t you just see it? Latest gynecology appointment, abscess on my cat’s head, I read THE ORIGINS OF BRITISH GENETICS last week, and a book on the probable ASSASSINATION OF GENERAL PATTON two days ago. Oh yes, all the intellectual foresight is there, laid bare for future generations to see. The sex life of raccoons in my back yard, I might get my hair cut tomorrow. Is our economic collapse ever curable? My head is whirring with potential jewels like hamburgers for dinner if we don’t have hot dogs. Washing machine and car both broke down today, the second obviously in sympathy with the first. More rejections this week, and though Al Capone was sent to Alcatraz for not paying his income tax, it now seem to a prerequisite for appointment to our new president’s cabinet. Let me tell you, if reincarnation is a reality, then I’m coming back on the release date of my biography. I can hardly wait to see the drama, intrigue, and poetic insights put together by some literary genius in regard to yours truly, a weary housewife with bad feet, two senile cats and the ability to see doom and gloom hanging over each day that I survive. Poet Thomas – your life was like water down the sink, writing letters about mundane things like love poetry and drink. More over, Dear Dylan, it’s about time To let this here REAL poet Stand in line.