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.