TV On Neptune

I’ve come to where they wander to, with disregard for Neptune, stoned and exiled from the sea to Berlin, where they follow their small black rectangles to the place of Alexander, opting to snap, not like a twig or a turtle or the ego but, a pic. They tilt the lens high up towards the sky attempting to capture and freeze patchy clouds backing a giant glass ball spiked on a spire, broadcasting out sans discrimination, rays of television. I’ve come to sit on a bench, eat delicious Bánh Mi, number 59, pulled from a pig, watch stone seals spit water high as they can but always fail to touch the veins of the verdigris god. But yeah, sure, call me the odd man out with pen and paper because no one writes any more obviously in public.