They swoop in, glowing and feathered, claiming beneficence, a parody of the Annunciation, and we say it’s the same, like eating rocks and calling them bread, but deep in the cavernous backs of our minds, we know there is something not quite right, not quite good. Though we’ve bought it all anyway and still do; whatever they’re selling, we’ll take. We’ll let them strip our skin and make it silicon. We’re OK with our muscles turning to steel and our minds getting replaced with bytes and bits and rusting out, slowly, slowly, slowly. More of this. But then, awareness. An uneasiness, like the soft shift in air just before a storm. And we can’t speak, because they’ve taken that and made it their own. They know this. And they continue. “It’s good for you. Don’t you like this?” they say, as they force-feed us like ducks getting prepped for a good, cruel meal. Like the ducks, all we can do is squawk. But ducks don’t have language. Our unheard cries--as our livers fill to bursting-- sound like this, “It’s the future.”
An eloquent and hard-hitting poem about the grim times we live in.