Down here, my pound of flesh is worth a dollar fifty

more. Where the old pretzel maker from Mindanao

once rested his sweat-flecked arms, there is now

a fire sale of obsolescence. A garden of aerosol cans

glistens, a low-grade hum emanates across

autonomous regions of retail. We once saw Mrs Lee,

very much the hypotenuse

to the railing of ageing steel. Every half-hour the virgins

parade, and giggle in their off-white whites. As I ascended, I recoiled

from the gathering stench of marriage. Remind me to tell you

about the other sale as well, before the discount codes go bad.

The nomads tell us of emporia built into emporia, aporia

within aporia. Some legumes here have not yet felt

the heat of the sun. Subprime loans bloom in neat terraces,

their scent draws the weary, the homeless, the recently discharged.

Noodles from Sarawak, a newly discovered scent

from downtown LA, a tribal mask from London. The best bed linen

wage slavery can buy. Wordlessness bleeds, out there

there is silence curated just for you and your loved ones.

Get back to work. There are acres of sleep we have not yet lost

and visions of paradise still not in the catalogue.