Sunday Squibs

 When I travel through America’s well built bustling cities, I imagine this is what London and Berlin looked like before the bombs began to fall. 

Praying for the dead is like dropping stones into faith’s bottomless pit. 

The problem drinker should worry more about the time of his last drink than about the hour of his first. 

When I visit Italy I become an Italian who has forgotten everything and is just beginning his treatment for amnesia. 

The mountains are beautiful, but the view from the valley is always the same. The plains dweller enjoys an ever changing sky and cloudscape. 

If the noonday sun prevents you from sleeping then you haven’t earned that nap. 

Can a person raise children and remain a narcissist? Yes. A narcissist is capable of anything. 

He spoils our sleep. He turns the screw. 

No other trace, a ghost who’s true. 

The ghost who’s real leaves not a trace

He turns the screw, empales our face

It is a healthy penance to allow another to blather on about himself all evening when you’d rather be blathering on about yourself. 

What annoys us in others is the shadow of our self. 

On-the-job training is ad hoc. Schooling leaves you in hock. 

As I climb the mountain of my faults, the air grows thin, my muscles ache, and the backslide option looks better with each step. 

Enjoyment of a Netflix series requires suspension of belief. By season three, belief is suspended over a foggy abyss. 

The egoist's actions are often unkind 

The sun of the self to the other makes blind

All writing benefits from the legibility of print, except the love letter, which must be written by hand. 

The "what about" style of political argument soon grows tiresome, even when your what abouts are much meatier and more numerous than those of your opponent. 

The narrow path to salvation is lined with billboards saying: Be thou not such a little bitch.  

Do we truly care about the players, the teams, and the rich men who own them, or is Sport just a chance to drink beer. 

Until we figure out what came before the Big Bang, the God theory is still in the running. 

Our friend Old Man Winter has earth on a string

On the day of the solstice he reels back the fling