Remote

The virtual freeway is empty
of all but venal vagrants
loitering about
like beggars on my corner,
schlepping sacks of unknown contents,
from somewhere
to somewhere.
Sacks of violent adhesives
coagulating incessantly.
Products of post-mortem
over-achievers
and squatters
and mercenaries,
all of whom are traded
spent
and reeking of the journey
like an old dollar bill.
The future looks bright
for pacifist vigilantes
and for transactions
without currency.