Due to the violent nature of this program,

viewer discretion is advised.

Carried all the plastic pieces and made a pile

that sang of garage sale glory,

sorted by ladies with purple follicles

and veins like snakes to match,

forgotten by their children’s children

who whore their time to television,

which, by the way, is ten dollars for

thirteen inches and rabbit ears,

and no, that’s not a Playboy joke, and I’m offended that you think that it would be, or worse, that I thought you would think so, and made it viable by writing it.

(I’m not really that offended but I do think that it was inappropriate, but needed nonetheless to prove that this is indeed the thought process of a twenty-four year old and not even single and even after having graduated  (and even with honors)).

Drop the journals on the table, accessorized by masking tape,

two dollars for these diatribes, for the voice of a man in a time

when he did not own a television, thirteen inches and rabbit ears

tuned the dude out of his flow and its harder to find something

when you didn’t value it and make it work with how fast technology

is changing and I think my voice, well, it got scrambled, and who’s

really going to pay all that money for a subscription or a little box

when there was that time when it came easy and free, like riding a bike

downhill, or with the wind and open arms and sail like a catamaran

past the old ladies pawning over the crap from other people’s lives.

But that was then.

Carried all my noble pieces and made a pile,

and hoped to God it didn’t sing.