Sam Sung

Mami sleeps inside the idiot box,

52 inches of Korean invention

wrapped morgue-like in her brain;

in her phantasms, she can benchpress

350 infomercial coffins and Slap Chop

crisp vegetables like a cutting machine.

 

Mami enjoys the static hours because

it’s a funerary service in her brain;

it’s turned off for 3 or 4 hours

everyday so she is spared from the

informatory disposal. But someone,

I don’t know who, forgot to pay the cable.

 

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