THE STARS OF OUR FAVORITE SHOWS ARE ALL IN LOVE BUT NOT WITH US

Mark Bibbins

I’m not acting coy, I’m just terrified
of some rhetorical you, full of red-carpet
menace and dead-end agendas. If we lack
credibility we can steal it, just don’t say

—Eject the bland [too easy]
—Impeach the emperor [again]
—Where’s the remote [too late]
—Love me back [so filled with useless

need, it burns holes in the rug]. Dial up
the days when some enfant terrible could
find himself place-carded next to an uptown
matron, lean over and whisper to her

an obscenity so accurate that she has no
choice but to be fascinated, delighted, etc.
Bring back Charles Nelson Reilly, bring back
Paul Lynde—man, those guys were gay—

to show us how it’s done. CNN, I’m sick
of your shit, trying to sell me Monsanto
and Boeing. Fox, you can’t have it both ways
forever—secrets are insults when everyone

knows them. Don’t second-guess elephants’
reactions to caches of elephant bones—
they know better than you and respect,
as you play it, is frosting on a tar-and-feather

cake. Even with the tease of syndication, our
bloodshot lifestyle can never compete with
his, or hers again, or yours—at least at last
I can measure you—now come, come rub me out.