Reductive, the dusk and twilight
Condense to blue squares
Ebbing dark and brightly lit,Dramas broadcast in the night
Divided some by a dozen panes
Others in two, double hung frames
They’re walls, glowing by televisions,
Best as I envision, through windows
Behind which people are in bed,
Or couch pillows prop up their head
While I, who walk by in the dark
Witness Man’s adoration of video lightening
Visions that disappear
Without ever being real
Lives of others we supplant for our own
And welcome to come in our homes
Jack Kerouac wrote of similar scenes
When, to become one with Nature
He similar suburban streets,
Under these same pink celestial stars,
Him the 1950’s beatnik,
Plodding his era’s identical picket fenced streets
And, like me, trying to pass beyond
Our trans-fixation with deceitful self esteem
In blue shadows of airwave ghost dreams,
While plodding towards inchoate Shangri-La
Which makes it at least seventy years
(it being twenty-18 now)
Since TV stole our eyes and ears
And souls
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