Comcast

by Chris Butler

Kneel before your Sunday morning god,
brought to you exclusively by Viacom,

by pardoning the interruption of the alpha
dog omega preaching static fits

in hours of paid programming expressing
the opinions of puppets posing

as the ghosts of talk show hosts selling
souls for nineteen-ninety nine,

until the technical difficulties of black
and white epileptic locust storms

force us outdoors onto the low-definition
planet projected on plasma screens.

Because tomorrow always
becomes yesterday’s rerun,

nothing good is ever on.