no one reads your stuff

or the few who do

don’t really get it


then the earth blows up

and your precious writing

becomes space trash


floating past the planets

into the deep empty galaxy


then a hundred thousand years

after your death


some alien life form

comes across your writing

translates it into his alien language


reads it

nods his alien head in understanding

and says, “I hear you, man.”


Bob Hudson is a sixty-minute man.

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