I collect words, phrases, snippets of verse. On cue cards, on sticky notes, in notebooks, on waterproof pads I keep in the shower.

Don’t always know what it is I am writing or whether it will be of any use. Don’t always know where it came from.

Sometimes it’s waiting to become part of something else. Sometimes it becomes something else entirely. Occasionally it comes to stand on its own. Often it remains a fragment.

A sampling of the recent:

I do not possess sprezzatura. I make easy look effortful.


This attitude of ought—it's a bad habit.


I am unrealistic because I tend to think

Why the hell not?


If there’s no Good News, no savior, no timely miracles thus forthcoming, then…

I am safely damned if I do or do not what I damn well please.


What have you risked, other than the occasional dissenting opinion, what have you ever given?


Why can’t you write something that makes people happy?

Where’s the carrot? You’re all stick.

Where’s the hope? You’re all bad news.


If there's no hope of redemption, why bother paying any attention to the hellfire preacher, his crooked finger pointed straight at you?


Part of me’s in another time. Part of me’s still on a plane reading Jesus’ Son.