Interactive TV


Engines receding in waves, like brightness or hunger or both on a 50 degree
day in January the newscasters joke about trees budding, coasts flooding,
and the giant horsefly smitten with my desk lamp. Kaity tells Jack that
Blake wouldn't kill it, and Jack and I ejaculate simultaneously (but not in
closed captioning), Thank God the cat's not Blake! And thank God we do,
through a little nap that takes us to the next wave of commercials. As
always, I interact with the actors, trying to draw out the drama as best I
can with comments about pimples, chlamydia, and the best enchilada I ever
had. Occasionally I get through, and one of them, say the man with
distinguished glasses, walks back to the showroom with a decidedly
unfamiliar stare. I plead with Blake to kill him, but she's got her hands
full with the fly, the floods, the trees. Poetry has failed me again. What
can I do but buy this man's car and recede in my own wave to someplace sane,
to the showroom itself, a glass palace perched on the highest spot in Idaho,
another place where my comrades and I can play king of hill until only one
of us is left in the bunker.