The End of Television

Covet not the sun its honorarium nor authorize the stars their grants to write. The sojournors spotted a forest adrift with language, but couldn't make sense of it. The woods at odds with the usual channels and those neighboring mountains didn't look like pyramids, no matter the scale. Read this part as if the sum of lilac mattered to you. For love of someone else's vortex, toss the luminaries aside. In lieu of flowers, please donate and in exchange for your sympathy I'll give you edits on the level of the line. Poems are to war as are ghosts to the proverbial orchard. Headstones offer us nothing but an end to syntax. Microsoft Word inverts the sea. I read your manuscript. Reader, I married it. I fear for the estuaries. They are so small this time of year.