by Christopher Jones
for Ishmael Reed
It’s this TV I tell you, the one the Corporation sent, with the
spigot on the side and real rabbits’ ears leaking from the top.
There was no Guide when I opened the crate, no instructions,
just some little slips of paper that said “Expect” and “There is
no remote because you’re not.” The cabinet’s made of wood,
I think, involved wood, with the sort of grain that shifts
around to let you see gods’ faces, or Jack Daniels, or Allah
drinking sour mash, if you want. If you wait. This TV never
turns off, there’s only one knob, but it’s all round. It doesn’t
change the channels, not exactly, but almost. Yesterday
they were making solid Gumbo, they were stirring with a
nail. One show had an axe, and a broom, and a salmon in a
cauldron. One had mothers in blonde braids, one had a girl
beneath the ice. One had a snow parade with no footsteps,
full of Japanese lanterns with doors cut into them. I pulled
a cup from the spigot once, it tasted like copper fish-wine,
like juice squeezed from the liver of the night. When you
turn the dial it goes around, it show you armies of birds
and the faces in the hay. One show was on the moon. Just sitting
on the moon. One deciphered a dollar, one wove a hat out of
sticks. They had a commercial for food you never ate and it
stretched out and curled up softly over everything like a mask
fondue. They program lots of fire, and they program lots of
blood. When they talk about the weather, they wink. You know.
A show about a Greek winemaker and the color that stained his
ancient mouth, and a New England butcher and how no one ever
knew. This TV’s got shows about wigs and hats and all disguises,
and then it takes them all away. The animals in there are smart
and in charge, waiting in ambush for rustlers and sparing Tokyo
with a nod. There’s a lot of thumping. Bass and loud, like the
wind that blows out of it sometimes. Pull up a seat. Try a drink
from the spigot. Sit real close. It’s all public access. The channels
are all Learning. It’s quite a TV. Quite a Corporation.
Christopher Jones founded Lost Prophet Press in 1992 and published the literary magazines Thin Coyote and Knuckle Merchant: the Journal of Naked Literary Aggression for many years. His work has been or will be seen in many venues, including The American Literary Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Egg + Frog, The Wild Word, Miserere Review, The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror (St. Martin’s Press) and a flowerpot on the Detroit Lakes Poetry Walk. He lives with his son Pharaoh, wife Andrea, two cats and many dogs in West Saint Paul, Minnesota, USA.
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