that's one more box of circuits

for the free-cycle junkies

who feed off the curb

of end-days regret

This city is a way-station;

the people come

only to leave

like a screen saver

that spawns fresh life

from nothing, nowhere

when we were too late to notice

the first puncture in the landscape

that swam downstream

for awhile, there is

new couches, new kitchens

new coaches, new cushions

until the wrist-flick moment:

they all disappear

and so will I

It is a hard drive

for anyone to take

wound up in worn cables

taut and intestate

caught and decrepit

like nana's mind,

holding on to the last few shares

of our joint venture

a once ambitious young investor

I denied the fundamentals

that all markets

contract

this is the final rally

of my dot-com boom

I am sorry,

but it is better that we know

the mail flyer physics, who wrote:

"Everything must go"