Oh, you son of a bitch,

how is it that the empty

web is even more dangerous,

the intricacies of your fractal

absence sinister in their

suggestion of otherness,

perhaps your antimatter

existence might collide

with your beady black

carapace, shining and

repulsive in my shoe or

on the ceiling or in the air

conditioning vent, and now,

come to think of it, I haven’t

seen the son-of-a-bitching

homeless guy on the corner

of Columbia and South in

weeks either, he could be

anywhere, you know, maybe

in the duct with the spider,

watching me right now, and

I think this is going to be an

awful day, yes, I know it.