television is a bully

Reading poetry, or having poetry read to you, is so much more a personal experience than a television show. No matter how great the writers did for the show. I bet the sounds of a modern tv show with bullets flying and profanities yelled by many characters is more entertaining audibly than a dusty old library reading select passages from, “Leaves of Grass.” Visually, on mute, the tv wins again. I don’t want to look at this tweed smoking jacket, fireplace backdrop, grey beard, eyeglass, relic of a cultured universe rehearsing his wisdom of years, the wisdom of real people having written real things, when the authors mattered and the stories of their lives have an intimate, tied-in relationship with their written work. Back when authors were famous for literary content and intellectual stimulation rather than children’s novels being read by adults. 

The stimulation is different. For me, a tv with hidden writers is purely mindless. I can make connections via synapses in my head mostly regarding elements contained within the series. It would be rare to have a philosophically contemplative moment while being so bombarded with information, piling on top of other information until the pyramids are formed. Quiet introspective moments are becoming extinct and there are no conservation movements for such blocks of time. 

We’ve plugged ourselves in through circuit boards

searched for an angry fix

these problems have easy solution and they’ve manipulated our brain chemistry

to write something worth reading is alchemy

meted out by fate

what the writer thinks is universally relevant

can be thought of as annoying trash

high brow intellectual nonsense

college classroom prose

words to actively ignore while reading

the newspaper ~

you can’t please them all 

unless the pages where infused with drugs

and printed in small font

you have to lean in real close

and start hallucinating Arkansas

‘This is the greatest thing I’ve ever read’

Morning comes, you’ve forgotten

and the book has been smoked

boiled down and intravenous

‘why did I do this?’


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