Tuesday, April 24, 2012

informed by television

What I Know About Nobility In The Face Of Heroic Futility I Learned From I Spy

It is a purely inspired scene written,
I want to believe, under the gun;
the writers trapped, sweating in a

windowless room of their own design,
a too neat and tidy trope worn thin
by overuse, the hour late, the coffee

stale, paper cups half full, crushed, sodden 
butts afloat, a bowl of tired fruit
adrift on a crumpled sea of

water-marked onion skin,
Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott
hapless victims of yet another

petty Third World tyrant, Fernando Lamas
perhaps, no less so by a hackneyed script
that lands them reliably week in and week out

in some locked room
in some strange exotic city
in some blistering equatorial country

waiting for the specter of impending
deadline to spur the narrative forward,
setting them free, ushering in

another Chevy commercial;
an implausible pyramid of
citrus their ticket out in this  

particular episode, cracking wise,
impossibly cool while they stacked each and
every orange, layer upon layer to

the edge of the high narrow window that
framed one coconut palm, the writers
expectant, hopeful even, in the

moments before they send Alexander
Scott scurrying to the top in a heroic
but futile bid for freedom, the Cos’

sprawled, mugging, oranges rolling, juice
seeping everywhere, the writers, spying
an out, having escaped amid the carnage. 

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