The Dealer

A massive school of blank faced people

navigate through the shadows and synyster corners

of a congested city street, uncharted waters

anger, boredom, greed, alienation, all swirling among the currents.

Reflections of holographic adds dance and ripple

across dirty trash covered concrete

sweeping over dazed consumers,

merging with their tinfoil clothing.

Automated flying plastic contraptions

swarm overhead, trash casually tossed out windows

splattering those trapped below.

The people were screens for clothing

that broadcast abstract emotions and feelings

simplified into emoticons and garish colours

signaling others, affirmation that they aren’t alone.

Seedy creatures lurk behind trash compactors

injecting viruses and bugs into their software

glitcheads, an unbelievable high, the world a fractured mess.

Sharply dressed businessman hustle by

fingers whirling across tablets, a perpetual monetary grind.

Police robots stop random pedestrians

terminating the occasional suspicious abnormality

necessary to refine the system.

At first glance, everything appears as a congealed mass

but if the settings are refined, tweaked

the brightness turned up

certain things come into focus

like a man zig zagging, sweeping the maze

wearing a long, buggy, billowing cloak, hood on

large sunglasses fastened on to conceal

paranoid eyes, darting all over the place

detecting potential threats

camouflage turned up,

he seeks to simultaneously blend in

yet also be noticed

his vague form picked up subconsciously by the drones

who are preoccupied by destinations hovering far away in the sky.

Underneath his coat lyes hundreds of devices

all pocketed and ordered

watches, sockets, analog plugs, lamps, tapes, records, cassettes, ipods, headgear, old video game systems, all wrapped up in his coat.

he deals in obsolete technology

a niche market for techy geeks

who seek to preserve technological efforts of forgotten inventors.  

An illegal hobby, documentain past relics

the system has no need for it, only the future matters.

So he must remain hidden, an undercover man undetected by software.  

Humming, charging, looking for a new target, a new sell.

Who looks disgruntled, unsettled?

His eyes see all, assigning fixed values and attributes

to potential customers and enemies.

Today seems slow, no one seems to care.

He sniffs and sighs, a hard day's night.

Obsessed with finding a sell,

not noticing the little bug scurrying up his back,

burrowing into his skin, lying, waiting

to excavate his mysterious brain for science.

Is there a cure?