I read this in a 3-buck psycho rag mag:
“Westerners claim a personal space
of 18 inches, just to stay sane."

I time in for work on Thursday.
Fiscal Fabricator puffs his pigeon chest
and syrup drizzle dribbles his address,
“We’re getting bigger, bigger, bigger, Boom!”
With graphs and charts he proves it.
I shoot up shouting, “Hey man,
the head hose sang that same song
at my last gig, right before the pink slips!”

I ring in sick on Friday.
Old lady wails on the TV set, “I can’t get up, I can’t get up!" Slam!
I lay out on the floor, get up a few times, just to make sure.
Insurance man comes a tap tapping on my door
all smiley-smile-smiles to greet me.
Flood, fire, smash-up, crack-up, he sows seeds.
My eyes grow rounder, rounder, Pop!
A nerve in my brain frays, I see stars.

I turn up at church on Sunday.
Preacher pivots in the pulpit
his face so line long loony,
yells me tells me “One road, one road, and you ain’t on it!" Wham!
I bolt up blaring, “No, no, no it’s none or many,
none or many, crazy mission man!”

They step forward, I step back.
They step forward, I step back.
It’s time I build a Unabomber shack,
reclaim some space, mail a few packages.

01/03/2005

Posted on 01/04/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill