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Social Troops

I get up.

Analog in.

Put on my facebook uniform

my “let me see. . .”

which hat to wear today,

–I choose


KnocKing knee socks flat, I

polish my visage. . .

adjusting merit badges

–pluck out creepy guy

exhibit A,

and request

less creepy guy

exhibit B. . .

I show & tell

–judge & scoff–

around gas-powered fire

where the mean are mainly

well-connected, but otherwise


–oh if that last part were only true, it’s in rhetoric

(code to the mean)

their doltish qualities reveal themselves–

again and again

–a visual

(and sometimes audible!)

tinnitus from which the

entire troop suffers.

Formalist Arrangement



is music to the ear,

a soothing rush

of empathy

that makes hurt disappear,

employing drums

and every thumb

this instrument atones,

undoing wrong

melodic song

confesses less condone,

in symphony

of sympathy

the chorus of lament,

is rising round of

“aw, that sucks”

belted with intent.

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