June 8

    A Twist Empathic

Beneath columns of quorum
senators preached an ethic
of each to each, that peace
lives in the folds of robes
and valleys where one can emit
and be warmed by his own heat.

I have ached in the cape of cities,
let every outburst of hate etch
itself emphatically on matching
synapses in my chimp brain
and emitted it back into the pace
and frenzy of this haptic pitch.

Still, I have not left for camp,
hermit who impeaches our pact
in some cheap tent, come back
with a machete to teach
and spread poison ivy
and the itch of selfishness.

We must not cheat the gods
of our dissonance, nor patch over
differences bestowed upon us
by parents or by science,
and champ at the bit of peace
and throw remains on the heap.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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