Royal Flush

Watching TV is playing a poker game.
Potato chips and gummy bears
were always better at bluffing than me.
The vivid colors appearing—alternating
on the screen make my eyes tingle.
I listen for familiar background tunes, but
all I get is Mr. Commercial Voice.
The cold mac n’ cheese has faded to white
throughout my day of being suctioned
to the frozen leather sofa.
I can still taste the crackling
static radiating from the tube.
Barack Obama interrupts my
not-so-interesting show with a
not-so-interesting update on our
not-so-interesting status in Iraq.
I’ve always been intrigued by the war.
TV has yet to become a use of time—days,
minutes, seconds wasted away in living rooms.
I’m obvs going to rot in this place,
because the rays from the TV are beginning
to invade through my skin—surely cancer.
I learned that on TV.
“You’re a twitch,” I recall them telling me.
The monopoly money of the world
will pay for everything eventually.
I’m as picky as a hooker,
chewing through men’s wallets
as I sit here on my sofa.
Australia would never do that to a person,
tomorrow she will pay them all back.
Because this sandy candy will find
treasure buried inside her one day.
I’ll have to learn how to make my own
money to lose it all again.
Das Geld is nicht sehr gut für die Eis.
As the TV kills itself, and the cancer
yanks the hair from my skin; Some day,
I will learn to play poker again.