Last Supper

Big Brother, Big Data, Big Tech:
I honestly can’t tell them apart,
but I love this thing. When this
thing breaks, I want another thing
just like this one. Big feels. Huge.
What is theory but a recurring
wanton thought, what selfhood
but a hammer seeking a nail?
Protect me from what I want:
domination, at my own hand.
I live here but don’t live here,
like a child in a swivel chair,
feet suspended in midair.
I would sink lower, slouch,
but distress is performative,
motion a Gothic melodrama
in a postfactual stimulus culture
beset by a centurial hiring freeze
wherein transcendence is had by
overcoming what made us human:
living and its inflationary costs.
Let the record show my failures:
muscles, tissues, tendons, blood,
a dwelling place none can afford.
This is my body, a repo market.
Prepare thee the way of the Lord.