Sometimes I wonder
if the TVs I help make
can one day do more than
display a sharper image
of white noise and statics

Some nights I dream
of my body moving
in peculiar ways
My ears hearing
strange frequencies

In the mornings when
I think up of new words
I do it under the sheets
some I repeat to a rhythm
some, I’m afraid to keep

I think the world
is falling into chaos
What the elders feared
The ordinary speak
broken and disfigured

One day I’ll wake up
and outside my window
will lie a city, in contrast
with my memories
and indifferent to the past

Today I think I’ll stay in
Contemplating the machine
Ray tracing between the shades
Eyeing the gold square
until it fades