Rotting On the Branch

Well, it's today again. Here's a poem and picture.

The Bo Tree

Zen Vito.

He has found the meaning
of pure television.  With legs
crossed under him, his mind,
floating on thighs, is one
image, one waveform repeated
in alternating black & white scans.

“Wu!”  Vito says.

His toes wiggle roots
growing from his ankles
down a stubby sofa leg
across the floor into the soil
of potted plants.  “We are
living things,” he says.

Silent Vito.

He knows life as a test
pattern, the longest dream,
the universe.  “I am massive
enough to watch eternity,
smaller than a drop of light,” he
says.  The picture tube is warm;
its circuits make life.