Rumor ekes out of the infrastructure of managed landscape. It bubbles up in the interstices of a book I’m working on called Exit 43. It is an archaeology of these post-industrial landscapes inhabited as a girl, re-sounding a series of muted ecological disasters occurring in the liminal zones of manufactured American serenity: coasts, expressways, banks. An opera of pop-ups that interrupts the whole wants to forge beguiling but revelatory choruses merging the voices of corporate managers and post-pastoral poetasters, government oversights and unlicensed diggers, children and toxins. It pumps this chorus through the infrastructure of abundance slash disaster—so that it wells up, out of the capped lots, weeping schoolwounds, demifragrant sloughs—toward the newly sexed shores: so that it sings a dis/aster that hasn’t been mapped, only hyperlinked through the symptoms of shame and imperfectly embellished cancers. The choruses track a hypothetical Alice’s misadventures underground and online, her labyrinthine effort of researching what’s at bottom. Gossip’s erroneous and surreptitious conduits pop up to interrupt official knowledges, their routes a stealthier expression of the Superfundament, Mmm-Alice’s wayward underground.