American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 15
Jacques Lacan Loved TV
and was also kind of a Dick
Kaycie Barr
Slouching to obsolescence: Bumfuzzle,
a word that hereby signifies fluster.
Spongey collywobbles in you tousled,
if words taste right, we have a blockbuster.
Diphthong, the cantankerous sound of “ou”
in out, or the “oy” in boy; words sure toy.
Language can sustain great weight, not sure how
the TV projects such avoirdupois.
Flesh and blood on the screen gyrate to you,
“That self-deluded irony you’ve found,
we’ve opted for this tack, in lieu
of the idea that we can’t inform abound.”
A superior rotation of “The Real,”
Lacan predicted this authentic world.
A primordial and symbolic canapé
to be snacked on in order of season.
Rococo words plagued with asinine tawse,
the sublime is found in your living room.
Sitting on a couch, library found across,
your den has now become a gorgeous tomb.
You tap tap the remote until you breathe,
eyes glaze over, sardonic minute quips—
self-awareness allots one to teethe.
A cynic is worthy if one has grip.
What good may come of flimflam, razzmatazz,
disconcerted, self-righteous, showy snobs,
who wish to dismantle the pleasure jazz?
TV nourishes inasmuch as Times.
Read a dictionary and you still rot,
watch a show, maggots will deem you a pepper pot.
American River Review
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