with three panes gone, hung like brocade

or iron chains across the screen

of the table-top TV.

Because my TV room was my sister’s room

before she vacated the premises with eyes dilated,

for other planets or hazy alleys where plumes

of smoke choke the fumes.

Because I heard about that shit on Povich,

addicts trying to kick then get back their kids

and start a new life somewhere far from pipes

and tracks that go nowhere.

Because I remember that summer Sunday

when my sister came back drunk from a boat party,

(the Harbor Master said the boat sank), eyes red,

pissed off, salt corrodes in her hair.

Because my sister’s then-boyfriend forced her

overboard, overwhelmed her in white powder, cooked up,

pure love. That summer Sunday , I had to turn the T.V. up;

she breaks glass, he sparks the lighter.

Because my existence is a jigsaw puzzle, pieces askew,

my stare starts to ache as I glare at the lead paint door

during commercial brakes, while the cracks in my life

continue to accrue, my mind needs a bottle of glue.

Because I believed everything I seen on that screen.

A made-up cosmos making me out to be deformed and

I would be better off if I bought their product, so I

Withdrew into my frail body, drew my own chalk-lines.

Because I know that interacting with the world-out-there

Is like kissing the devil, like free-basing gasoline

mixed with Seroquel. Still, I wanna be somebody,

flying on a vicarious high.

Because there are vampires that Buffy can’t slay,

there are files that X-files can’t close, MTV

can’t entertain my soul, and the 700 club

can’t find God for me.

That’s why I shot the TV.