Burned Out Poem by Glenn Bagshaw

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At night the TV frees my tears and howls
as movies merry-ghost lost B-grade worlds.
John Wayne corralled-with rope of fettered jowls
and Munroe's curves- those waves! - drum dreams of girls.
while we ourselves, in photographs and such,
with shutter- we're time shut - as quick as schemes-
forever clicked, in twenty frames too much,
now snapped and trapped with smiles in frozen scenes.
There's something quite electric in our lives.
We're disks or chips that drone in some machine
like steady hum in honeywells of hives.
You buzz with meanings, deep as any mine,
all orbed and glowing light that's overdue,
then sparks, then dark, and night is fused with you.