How I hate you,
anchorman, you
of the salt and pepper perfection
and the analgesic voice.
You’re the tool of liars
and the wedge for division.

I find, to my delight, that my hate
has given me powers —
I close my eyes 
and play his Teleprompter
from my living room,
focusing on how I might disrupt
the world through the music
of the nightly news.

I blow a sequence onto the screen
from miles away and lo, he is reading
a story of a crop circle
on the White House lawn, confirmed
by the press secretary.  His face betrays
a touch of panic…I play on:

trilling into his mouth
a tale of dolphins in the Hudson River
doing tail stands and backflips
near the rising Freedom Tower;

laying down fat tracks regarding
Illuminati child slavery plans
hidden in the plots of sitcoms;

improvising like mad to make him 
rise from his authoritative chair
and dance while proclaiming 
the return of St. John the Conqueror
to the West…I’ve never seen the man

less enamored of his voice and presence.
I stop.  He stops.  He falls
sobbing and sopping wet to the floor.
I set aside my control of the screen.
I watch him closely for signs of relapse,

but no.  I think he’s done.  I think you’re done,
anchorman, spokesman for the dumbing down.
Given the right musical instrument, anything can happen
and often does.  I don’t know what will happen to him now
but I’m warming up for his replacement, making his screen say

“stop…
no…
enough…
what…
no…enough.”