I like to pause television shows
Using a bent index-
Pushing those parallel lines
Straight to Heaven’s gate.
Inside that frame
A swiveling profile-
Eyebrows folded towards the snout.
A bass line drops
A collapsing electronic omission,
Tears made of glycerin shine
Like capped teeth.
Even journalists are trusted enough
“Heroin ruins lives!”
They understand the ratings tremble
Like a lifeline
When the cold are CEOs
And not the poverty stricken-dead.
But a compromise of values must be met
Develops a consciousness online.
A consciousness as real as the fingerprints
Spilling their souls like blood
Onto the alphabet.
But the story will be compromised
When fragmented. Those dramatic expressions
That starts with cackling
And concludes in side-splitting-
A deep enough wound
That I give up
My golden soul shimmering at the base line of my neck.
Telecasters are able to manipulate synapses inside the brain,
Using imagery modeled after perfection,
To construct a sensational euphoria.
So I wonder…
Why does the Garden of Eden
Appear beautiful on screen
And plain in reality?
If I were Eve I wouldn’t have just bit the apple
I would’ve consumed the fruit
Down to its core.