Trawling Styx

They wander, bereft of star or compass
through pixel blizzards, sky salted with electron snow
trying to free a semblance of self
slathered in photons and microwave flux
from silt in deletionís undertow,
to extract a trace of breath or memory
from tangled limbs of the decision tree.

They work to dredge a modicum of grace
from flooded basements in a dotcom mavenís dream
as pastel angels, revved in overdrive
buzz streetfront sanctums of their plastic avatar
while K-mart apostles all gibber a gospel of sale
then pass the sacrament: magnetic strip and microchip.

A billion deals inscribed in wavefronts
slice unheeded through our frail organic husks
as melted truth is modemed out through saturated nodes
sagging under glut, bopping to the voice-box squawk
of the carpal-tunnel server-error cell-phone-elbow blues.

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