published in Volume 1, Issue 5 on November 20th, 1994
My childish friends are outside Playing games with philosophy. Where is my catcher's mitt? An errant hypothesis crashes through the neighbors' window And lands in the living room. All are afraid to retrieve it. "Ye gods," cries the transcendalist, "We'd better make tracks." Here it is. My mitt was under the chemistry set. Acid holes in the leather. Toss me a paradox.