SUNDAY MORNING: MEMPHIS. (with apologies to Wallace Stevens) No peignoirs in this pad, no green cockatoos, coffee is the closest I can come to Stevens' mood. And sun. The wind-herded clouds have moved on out letting sun sing with all stops pulled. The air is wet, kiss-sweet and kindly warm after a dreary night of rain. Birds are rejoicing -- rejoicing, Wallace, not questioning -- rejoicing! Yes, and yes, of course, they're still quarrelling over which branch is whose, they're only human after all, none of us get to choose our fate. I have no quarrel with religion anymore, having finally realized that I am my own. I am my own religion, yes, and I stand before you proselytizing me, and knowing full well that I have no pedigree other than that of wanting to be true to what is truly me. Show us your Scripture, you say. My gospel is as simple as a mule's bray, it is the Augustinian way: "Love and do what you like." Mike Geary Memphis