had too much
and not enough
imagination. Why just one
rough beast, for instance,
slouching up the main street's
verge—why not
a million? Perhaps even
a billion
running interference,
pressing in
from the edges?
Or worse yet: not even
"pressing," since it's
nothing so agentic, and
therefore, not a villain?
What if trillions
upon trillions of dis-
interested bits—not
Satan's digital minions
breeching our cyber-
Utopia's privacy hedges,
but uncountable, unknowable,
ineffable battalions
of inane stochastic parrots
built to mimic us
to pieces—start to weigh
down all the branches
and block said-Utopian
sunlight's path, along with
all its oxygen—not to mention,
due to heat- and brain-death,
any thoughts at all—
coherent or poetic—
re. said-Utopian citizens' strategy
for an exit?
