No Access

Our hills and fields have become filled with denizens –
Rather, what once thrived there has now yielded to another:
Odd oblong boxes spotted with window sills, bedecked with more decks
Than the vexing Vegas strips,
Whose views contain at least three less-blessed levels of tiled domiciles,
Hovering between sparkling pools and poor fools, under some
But still above the rest.
These million-dollar towers that eat slick cars
Like lowest Lucifer licking out of three mouths,
They rise like razed skeletons, with nothing in their ruddy ribcages,
Nothing within their unchristened walls –
Even though a nation’s dependent patrons lay routed and scrounging in the dirt
At the bases of these effaced, refaced foothills;
Even though the throes of dearth claim more Earth, wind the worth of new birth
Into the toxified terrain, slain with functionless remains.
These hordes clinging to hope can’t scale the terraced heights –
They don’t have the proper equipment.
These houses, looming boxes blooming out of landscaped lichen and lily-pads,
They just wait,
Agate white and pure,
Vacant until someone exchanges one tower for another.
But there’s no ascension on this hill.
Only perpetuated transmutation – while the boxes keep growing
And waiting.