A Fear of Small Round Things

Dave Burbank


I cannot pass through toll booths,
dimes stop my motion; impossible to change.

The accusing eyes of blackened birds
force me to carry and umbrella on sunny days.

Checkers and marbles were buried in abandon,
I played with blocks or wheeless matchbox cars.

Pebbles are adrenaline for my blood,
sleep's easier under boulders or the shadow of Redwoods.

I cannot drink form cans,
my bottled djinn forces three wishes from me.
Fear. Hatred. Nausea.

Dusty manual typewriters devour my hands,
rotary dialing and button-down shirts do the same.

Aspirin tablets. Rings. Tacks.
I suffer, plain and unadorned.

Dictionaries burn with the letter o,
I refuse to believe in the number zero.

Towns and cities on folding maps are tiny hells,
the square peg always fits for me.

The little things in life are getting to me.
Looking around I implode.

These pages are created and maintained by David Jacobs and S. Adam Rice . Please mail them if you have any comments, suggestions, or whatever.