It is easier to photosynthesize than to say I’m sorry.
What we lack possesses us.
A side of sad gives joy its curious twang.
To go far enough you must first go too far.
Agnostic: one who takes all doubts on faith.
First kiss: what we repent of by stealing a second, then a third . . .
When caught, water snakes pee on their captors. Politicians explain.
Prophet: one who preaches the past using future tense.
Slam a door five hundred times, one tentative turn will open it.
There I go again, ducking the snowball my brother didn’t throw at me forty-two years ago, with a rock that wasn’t hidden inside.
Punch line of a Yiddish joke I’ve forgotten: “Oedipus Schmedipus, so long as the boy loves his mother.”
Attendant at the animal shelter showing me a six-toed cat: “That Hemingway character bred them,” she said. “I think he was a writer or something.”
My problems, I say, my addiction, my childhood baggage, my psycho-somatic illness leaving me curled in the fetal position in a restaurant bathroom sobbing. As if I owned them.