Three muppets, alternating in a rhyme-- Cat, sat, hat, perhaps, or ball, hall, wall-- Seemed as surprised as I was when a fourth Darted between them and the camera lens, Shouting the rhymes that he had taken over As if they were a war-cry or a curse. Whatever gentle souls at PBS Designed the skit or held the muppet-strings Would have been shocked to see the way I tore In sudden terror from the living room, A categorical, instinctive fear That had no remedy or explanation, And wouldn't be repeated till the night, Years later, when the screen of my Atari, Normally filled with blocky cars and spaceships, Vomited up a solid wall of symbols-- Hashmarks, exclamations, ampersands-- My brain could not decode or tolerate. If nothing's been as terrifying since, Perhaps I owe it to those early glitches That taught me how to apprehend the form Disaster takes, the sudden rushing-up Of something that is not supposed to be. Excerpted from The Discarded Life by Adam Kirsch All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
