I try to figure a way
to pull out true thoughts
or words or whatever the
thing would be in your hands,
from discordant electricity,
buzzing, blaring around—
a transformed white off the walls.

But color’s too bright, they have
the growing music that’s
supposed to make you feel
the bad’s going good, the
single mom will take care of
her baby, those mascara tears
will rise black backwards up
like the night sky of the
beginning, because the
beginning makes sense.
It was starless.

Her singing sounds
good to everyone’s ears,
it seems like.    

All I can make is TV sense.