I can take them, in small doses, like pills

a little poison, to strengthen my soul

but dealing with their bottled-up egos

their swallowed-up misery

is a suicide

waiting to happen.

There are some people,

I need to get away from

it’s not so bad, if you meet with them

for 30 minutes

because you feel

so good,

when they walk away—

like having diarrhea, or pulling out a splinter.

There is no amount of money

you can give me

to work with these people.

My supervisor was so unpleasant

that I ate my lunch in my car

rather than a paid-for air-conditioned meal

while listening to her talk.

It’s an offense

to these people, that I don’t want to hang around them

like artwork

watching them

while they show off.

These people have spiritual problems

not that I can diagnose,

but whenever I feel like saying

“Go to the devil!”

they’re already there.

Bad Art

Admires Itself.

11 thoughts on “The Problem is the People

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