Another Cold Can of Empty (poem)

Machine sprayed shining, shapes
jumping with bar codes, like

little cat feet, snapping
over red hatch-cover, cylinders 

drained smooth like circles, never
again full from the start, packing

fizzy imprints of enterprise, painted
pixels of instants, nothing

deep nothingness given, volumes
specific space-time dilations, added

six pack’d end of days.