Cars slipping down ‘The’s’
Cascading river of fuming light
They don’t know what they’ve made for us 
Up here or up above
I don’t think they even give a shit  

I know I wouldn’t  

Bjork had a video once,
Something about us
Us
Super computer humans with
Microchip warehouses 
And Datahouse condos
Prius coffins also all
Overheating
Pulses
Avid clicks
On fire
We always look it, don’t we  

The Sun
That’s blood orange of Northern Italy 
Milan on the horizon
Where’d you get that from It looks very nice on you, doesn’t it

The speckled congregations of halogen and pathogen
You should see how Berlin divides from Space
You mass
Metastasizing
Turnpike veins
Lumpectomies for Costco’s
Strip-malls the historic brownstone
You’re post-modern babe
Googie temples
Drive-thru Mecca
You wouldn’t want Paris 
But its recipes, Republique,
Or AirBNBs
Its grams and IG’s and the cobblestone 
No maybe not that
Digging for the finest ideas, though, you
City harvesters
Acting as gatherers
Sometimes the gesture does us in enough. 

An idea of you as home as always frightened me
‘I’d rather be buried elsewhere’.  

But yes I suppose there’s something more
Now I see you
Something you’re brought on me
You tumor of grids 
Masses of galaxies 
Trons of Jons and Vons and Lawns 
People yearn for the maps of our stars
They always fall but 
Never across the sky
For all the gravities you push into your orbit
Bunch up
And pull up
Into the hills
Constellations overlooking Milky Ways 
You’re just all of me
And all of us 
Us dreamers
Weilding tongues of snakes and shamans 
Saturn Sirens
Vegans of Neptune
Peasants of Pluto we meme-share without desire for contact
Elitist loner-dom
Echoed shadows my denizens 
I’m home and I’m landing
How God I wish I could see you at night when I look up at the sky the way I look at you on the ground
Landing now, I’ll need a smoke
Maybe then I’ll say I’m home
Here it comes, the tires down
Our Landing gear in set
Concrete burn and skid
$60 Uber
And standing idly on the escalator no matter which side you wish to lean
I taste the dry
Air cakes the face like a mask
Smog-filtered movie-glasses
Rose
Into Rosé and violet and Aperol Spritz
Heavenly graffiti.  

Being here’s like always waiting on the gates.  

Fuck being buried, 
I don’t know if we’re ever getting in.