1. Fifty bucks-if you tell me I'm right about you this time.
2. Schoolmates being what they were, it was nearly impossible to find a third player. My September '71 best friend had to grow different personalities from scratch. Through the years, they eventually intermarried among themselves and became known as episodes of Self-Service Wash.
3. Sportswearmanship: the courteous and admirable grace of someone in terry robe and sweatpants who is suffering a weeklong losing streak.
4. Even though I cheat occasionally, my clairvoyant skills haven't improved as well as my dice-rolling abilities. The distinctive flourish in my capital letter S, according to the handwriting analyst, pertains not to me, but to someone with a deep conceptual love affair with the Marquis de Sade; the words push and buzz are my limitations.
5. A weak affirmative is indicative of a bluff. When the opponent is female or thereabouts, yes is a strong indicator of my foot's on fire: you may not be the only one hiding under her flounced skirt.
6. Handling miniature murder accessories tends to awaken one's defense mechanisms. The altruist in the hall with your mother is actually a displaced musician looking for a bite to eat, an ear to lick, a life to organize. In short, a typical anal personality, call the physician since it's his son.
7. The gleam from your monocle leads me to deduct that I can be attractive with your wrench in my hand.
8. My incorrect accusations-at a rate of 23 per hour as opposed to the normal 5 of others-reveal a tendency to jump to conclusions. A recent psychical development allows me to admit that approximately 55% of my ex-husbands' lies are, in fact, figments of my hasty computations.
9. In Politically-Correct Ransom Note Writing, the artist is advised to use sharp scissors and paste heart-shaped designs on paper. This shows, on a subliminal level, that he comes in peace.
10. You are always the upper card in another person's hands.
Unmistakably, this is an unrevised account of all the bad blood between my 18th and 23rd secret love poems.
Somewhere is an evolution away from nowhere.
N got his bearings as soon as he stopped to smell the parking meters and stash his surgical instruments in the hood of an unmarked car.
In some light-emitting versions, I am censored for accepting the moose-knuckle trophy (not mine).
There were some flaws in paradise, like kind words with a 3 p.m. sore throat.
Slumped shoulders were sexually provocative in ancient China: the huntress, the deer, some primordial soup murmur.
In the ABC area of the Venn diagram, a eunuch trained in fungible parts.
For seven days house painters whitewashed all the broken tin giraffes in N's duffel bag.
Some historical facts never came out after the yellow bird (presumed an auk) became extinct.
I went out to look at maple leaf discoloration.
I stopped using my real name in public library.
I mailed invitations for a nonexistent soiree.
I legalized all my gambling debts and plagiarized vowels.
In short, I went right back to cleaning rooftops with chimney smoke.
Arlene Ang lives in Venice where she edits the Italian edition of Niederngasse. Her poetry has been published in Envoi, The Pedestal, Mississippi Review Online, Rattle, Smiths Knoll and 2River View. Her first full collection of poetry, The Desecration of Doves is available through Amazon and Barnes&Noble. Check out her website: http://blueline.goobertree.com/aang.