if I had a mouth I'd scream

choking smoke under tomorrow's silent detonation clawing through a cemetery of postmodern living manifest. clamber over office chairs toppled like tombstones in the dark. I reach for the files on the floor / unbinded forecasts / scattered forgotten children. the oracle legs crossed sitting on the desk under the last LED light. he scribes code like prophecy one hand eyes fixed on the void beyond the stage. my body scrambles cross the bureau for the scripture on all fours. my mind is out of office. I grasp his latest proverb let my eyes absorb the facts and figures characters that once I might have made some sense of. they store the data someplace else. post-digital we've lost the need for sense or comprehension.

his papers top the pile of files I pass on to the queen. she sits in the last chair spinning at the end of the world. she thanks me for the files. each is torn one at a time. I reach for their remains and crawl to claim another prophecy from the pen of the diviner.