POEM: Soulless Hour

In the soulless hour,

hearing my pulse,

a rubber mallet pounding a distant tin roof.

Comtemplating tribe signaling


social media as the place truth and conscientiousness go to die.

Personal facts, like the personal Jesus that’s been sung about.

But maybe there never has been such a thing as a fact.

That absurdity let’s me sleep like a baby.


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