The Box



the box glows blue
channels one to seven billion
we are not even present
flicker, flicker, a taper for your dream
cushioned consensual comas
it's nice
flick, flick, flicker
the box glows blue
the background noise
squaring some view
by standard definition
limiting horizons
the box is you
the telly, who knew?
aloof on a pedestal
the box glows blue
blankly witnessing divorce
its quality is true
it's quality
the box
glows
blue

Channel 666:
Another standard – hand – held – remote – control.
With buttons.
Rectangle horizons set sunsets without warmth.
Serial cycles: death, credits, rebirth
The recent eternal, those pesky men of straw are at it again
"Tonight in Hegel's Dialectic see truth being bludgeoned
by hillbillies, Survivors, <celebrity_name>, <politician_#93419>, the News at 7, <CurrentPropagandaPiece>. Don't miss it!"

…at home on the couch, with filters wide open
we're little more than everything we've ever seen
I mean you are what you eat, after all
I'd swear by it, but
who's paying for attention?
priming by true, by TV: 'Buy a TrueTV – today!'
That endless pipeline for info-, edu-, entertainment
That endless wiring of a circuit

INT. TV ROOM – EVENING

Middle-aged and careworn, THE WIFE is stirring at the stir-fry.

HER
What's on the news, honey, what's on the agenda?

Her HUSBAND sips his beer, distracted, finger drubbing on the tabletop.

HIM
Oh, I missed it. Sorry babe, it slipped buy me.

FADE TO BLACK. REPEAT.
THE END.

Fuck that.

Channel 101 (your attention please)
Cities have forever killed silence, silence
is impossible when unmuted and always on, but
those concrete boxes will – if utterly deserted, and
with all the automations dead – be totally silent.
Silence…a rare freedom from perturbance.
The lost art of being alone but not lonely.
the lost art of being

I have seen this house been made, with cold, our house of
walls, individuals – insulated from I
have seen it, this mute mistake
and sensed the part we've all played with
our continued ignorance.
The systemic ignorance of such a simple Truth
Seems unfair to blame myself
Seems unfair to feel such subtle guilt
Ever the victim, eh?

It's hard, it's the hardest thing, but
there is no alternative.
Not if we ever want our freedom back.
To exercise our flaccid, boxed in will, to
shoulder the responsibility. Finally.
Are we not grown-ups yet? No?
If not, then when?

It's funny
[cue the laugh track]
It's funny how the truth so often is hidden in plain sight:
Press a button on the remote control, and –
[buy this better box]
– and just as I suspect:
change channels, hear a laugh track.


 

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