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He sits in jail
examining the writings on the wall,
shaping invariable connections
through wires
friends bought from random clicks
and coincidence
in a universe that is soon to be extinguished
after Pluto
when its race, drained of exuberance,
discovers
another enclave to exploit
he sits in that distant universe
a plank of wood weary
from years of adhesion
to the same old skin
the TV screams GOREMISCHIEFMAYHEM
the bestial dogs are running
out of gas
since their last supper
the sun retreats,
unforgiving,
and wakes again this side of the earth
and he sits, basking
in the glow
of poisons
and makes the most accurate portrayal
of a parody
of himself
when he comes back to orbit
days as hollow
as the center of that web
which curiosity bore
these nameless scriptures on the wall
remain
without compassion
All that is left
is history
without use
like a melancholic fruit
dried of essence
And he asks,
Where is everybody?
