Toothbrush, Bus Ticket, Paycheck

The constant indexical chatter
Is driven by greed and restless
Curiosity about the world
And all it contains, reality
That can't keep its dirty hands
Off its data. That anything
Should be sacred, mundane, or profane
Is not just an aberration. It is part
Of the new dispensation
And it began with names,
And it netted the Earth,
And it will sing its own praises,
Sacred, mundane, or profane
To itself when the last throat is dust
In the ashes of the last human chest.