and the broken down service station
opens unto itself
the vagrant portal
sending the messages to vacant warehouse districts
to the new plains
grown on dirt pile removed voraciously
to make the foundation.
The virtual space for something new
to exist and then be
the broken down service station or
yet worse the greened dirt pile.
Walking down highway that moves
forward. Two Lanes. In or Out.
Cemented line of structure
The road is long and weary and
turns by its own will
turns into parking lot for nothing
the end of parking lots.
There was a farm here. Someone died.
Now just a field where the grass
won’t grow, a few invasives to pepper the landscape.
A man stands out of visions understanding
to watch the field.
The grassless field
making sure nothing goes on there.
Then farm now field
is alive and transmits
to other expiration, other deaths.
Of the extinct and
and the obscured man remains
to assure this is enacted
to its completion.
they are alive
the millions of bugs alive
30 days before the end
and the bugs communicate none.
Objects have tried
Creatures have tried
The bugs feign response and responsibility
nullified winged bugs. Paper thin
The ex-patriots of our world. Freedom
from allies on the axis of the sky
or even walking around on
carcass and arm.
Millions studied and cataloged
silently. The buzzing
we are all convinced
is the thoroughly despised
sound of the millions of bugs.
Betrayed by their nullified bodies. Betrayed
by sound and false communication.
and their expansion.