Posthuman Blues

The Gibsonesque sprawl of Denver International Airport, dizzying lengths of chrome and flowing black corrugated metal. The occasional nexus where naked capitalism competes for space among installations of unadulterated tourist kitsch (a mock-up of the Wright brothers' plane hovers above tile inset with gilded dinosaur fossils). Endless kiosks boasting cheap email access emerging like unruly metal growths or the vertebrae of some half-seen organism, fossil curves reiterated across acres of brushed steel and palm-printed glass where one can feel an autumnal chill radiating through sloppy reflections: ranks of strident ghosts swapping photons in an infinite choreography of fickle memories.