no longer a commercial break.
     not the self-explanatory hour.

the monks trod silently towards the altar.
Conway Convy and Cosby: the holy Trinitron.
marble busts reside solemnly gathering a static overlay of 
dust: the weft of importance.

Bugs Bunny is the

     unblinking eye at the apex of the pyramid,
     gauntleftisted dictator of the loonytoonocracy,
     minister of propaganda,
     one who incites the restless impressionable
     prepubescent public
          to violence in the heart of darkness
               the forest
                    through which elmer fudd
                         double agent
                         crawls with stealth of night.
                    his shotgun mechanisms
                         gleaming in the moonlight.

Bugs Bunny
     rants groucho Marxisms,
     cavorts goofily against an operatic background.
the angels of doom
     roadrunner & hideously deformed "tweety"
     mere fingerpuppets on the immaculately white
     gloved fist of
Bugs Bunny.

The reception is terrible 92.02453988 (as near as i can 
ascertain) persecs removed in space from the closest cable 
outlet. yet statisticians have already predicted the 
glorious rebirth of disco: polyester nostalgia in the year 
1997. the benign mediocrity of 50's television has been all 
but entirely erased by the glittering static

     the electromagnetic imprints of comets, novae, nebulae.
there is an enormous amount of information in static,
all of it imposed by the afterimages and anticipations of 
the viewer. staring will release the wakedreams.
and surreal interpretations of formulaic plots.

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