telly dreams

the television was talking back to me,
wearing keira knightley's face,
in a conversation as open as the ocean.

the damn thing knew of every record,
every moment, in sports history,
then it told me of each newscasters'
most detailed quirks, in a way
like it was talking about weather.

it said that it would give me the best
insider track of the stock market, too,
but only if i would sing a boyband song.
(i did not).

and the night wore on around us,
we toasted on all things good,
i drained my drinks and the television
munched away electrical energy,
as if my salary was an eat-all-you-can buffet.
(it was not).

if the conversation had a destination,
it was nowhere near in sight,
if the conversation was anything,
it was a rainbow, its ends out
of my existence, its meaning far too
deep for my memory, for my sanity,
and if i tried to reach for it,
it would move a day's distance away.

so the only thing that's left to do,
was to ask if it knew of the secrets
of the universe, of the far reaches,
and through keira knightley's lips,
out of a keira knightley pout,
in its best keira knightley voice,
the television said yes.

2007.feb.12