Press the Remote
Scanning bland television bands.
Nothing new, nothing fresh.
Voids of mindless muddle.
Concoctions of grand delusion.
Dreams of tomorrow, gone.
Faded blue hazy glows.
Enslaved and held captive
Simply press the remote.
Another station, another snare.
Trapped in hypnotic trances.
Clutched by idiotic dilemmas.
Thumbing and surfing narrowed realities.
Father, mother, brother, sister transposed.
With friends in smell rose spaces.
Living in unreachable zip-code places.
An autograph if you please.
Powerless, just another thumb of the remote.
In search of perfect friendships. Perfect parents.
A perfect mate. Perfect children.
It is a perfect home life improved.
Press the remote, again and again.
Simpletons plight of images.
Tromping the vast mind-fields of broadcast bands.
Casper Parks, copyright 1997