Teevee Dreams

Lately television gives me nightmares. I don’t even watch it, but when I happen to pass a set, the advertisements, the news, the talk shows, they frighten me. They glow inside my mind like malevolent suicide angels and at night manifest themselves in images of unspeakable horror and atrocity. A sunken world, always red sky and black rain, inhabited by the dirty dregs of the earth. There’s me, dirty and destroyed, addicted to buying, addicted to thrills, a television set where my stomach should be. I eat money I eat radio keys and antennae. The advertisements are invading every empty site in your memory like cockroaches inside the walls of your house waiting to come out at night and scurry around your brain, cockroaches that look like dull jingles and bright, flashing colors, dollar signs, and pictures of living room sets that could look so cute in your cramped apartment. Even when you crush them they are all gross and gooey and stick to your shoe or umbrella.