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Stack of Magazines


by Chris Minor

There must be something I can say

About this mad world

That you've never heard before

If we lived in the space age

The sky still clear blue

Maybe I could implore

You for the time

I look at the screen

Try to pinpoint the hour

That the selfish disease


Were we all asleep?

Infected early?

Or just sprawled on the rug

Given our toys?

Idiots fly and

Classicists cry

New-age sadists

Force feed us manure

But a woman with work

Or a man without words

Just smile and wave

Could that be the cure?

How many years have passed

Since I considered

The destruction

And loss of my mind.

I gladly resisted

Declined their gift

Of infection, abandon

And a cheap glass of wine

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