blank

industrial park & the acrid chemical tang

so diseased it infects the ground around it & turns it

to broken concrete & faded yellow lines

& oil stains

warehouse where long faces on sad frames

move slowly from stack to stack

& the hi-lo beeps pleasantly like an idiot at an infirmary

would smile at the rows of dead & dying

(is there anything else I can help you with today?)

soulless fluorescent casts no shadow on the pallid blue office

drop ceiling but pipes above it rust & whine even after the lights are out

& (my name is BLANK. thank you for calling) even here

the chemical intoxicates and warps around your skull &

you can be sure that the voice on the line when the phone chirps

is a ghost long since dead that only has a voice

in some other ethereal place where a phone line is

all there is

what mythology was wrought from our souls when we came here?

what past life-future life-present life was bartered when

we signed & what place in our guts is kin to a gray industrial park?

have a great day. goodbye. goodbye.