A poem.
i am simultaneously appalled by all the intimacy i see
on contemporary TV,
and frustrated that none of it actually actively involves me –
other than as a third-party,
being cuckolded by a wife who would rather experience it through a screen
than with the man she swears she loves unconditionally.
“sex is not the be-all, end-all of our propinquity,
darling-dearest honey sweetie”
and the movie’s full of jokes but she says it’s not a comedy.
thirty years ago you didn’t have to show it,
but if you had the chutzpah to imply the male erection,
you would be lucky if your film went wider than a festival selection.
but as if Scorsese doesn’t already argue daily for media preservation,
there go another dozen new shows each week up for investigation
in this problematic modern streaming pervasion.
theory of a daskeman 