What happened to the television box? That shop vac of zoned consciousness, cubist nemesis, new time negator of this world. Is it inside its confines, trapped like that girl from Willy Wanka or Being John Malkovich.
Is that where you’ve gone?
Do you exist out there in the IPhone plazas, casting pharaoh’s shadows in the economic subway? No block without them near triplicate, framed through windows, puffing Einstallion* hues in the meaty air, flat, and designed in prevision, Fung Shui – untraceable antennas, that were once bunny ears.
You, the mashing of screened encounters, You mattered draw of yawn, You virtual vestige of our society.
Stacked like packed ice, sharded tubes – to plasmatic, settling just before the holographic pixel and 3D personal space, and that successor’s Google. But I still have my TV, and nothings changed. When will we reminisce on your retreat. When the post-man rings? When the post-IPhone generations done filing applications? Well can pop culture please exhume pop rocks? Can we please predict the replacement platform. Lollapalooza. The Apple of tomorrow’s eve.
* (Einstein + Stallion)
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