Originally published in Synapse on March 15, 1990.

Each morning, I rise — Odysseus at sea, The horizon shifts, but the Sirens tempt me. On the bird’s eye — past the haze. No feast, no whisper, no fleeting song, Can pull me from where I belong. I burn ...

To all the recreational runners, or hobby joggers (and I use this term in a non-derogatory manner), who run not for the pursuit of excellence, but simply as a means to an end, I am telling you, ...