a poem:
Did it feel as if your world was sliding, slowly sideways then suddenly out of view?
Did you feel it as the body count rose and the deadpan reaction of those you knew didn’t seem to fit the urgency of questions that framed your worldview?
Those somersaulting cataclysmic avalanche of questions were met with deafening, ghosting silence and the silence mocked the dead.
I guess it was time for the chickens to come home to roost, he said.
I guess we are going to finally feel the sting of war, she said.
But most were on the sidelines still scratching their head, still running up ideas like ticker tape in the user nation machine, refusing to read the contracts or face the truth:
the chickens did indeed come home to roost.
Welcome home to Potemkin village, she mused, where the walls and roads are illusions under the pastiche of technocracy grey.
They’ve created a Kill Box, a Skinner box, or just a box and god forbid you’d ever want to stray.
What’s been done to the poor or the crooked bodies in arms, or hell even Palestine, you can rest assured is now yours and mine.
Embedded deep in the soil of founders lies, lies the twisted gnarled truth:
chickens are indeed coming home to roost.
To support Book of Ours, click here: https://book-of-ours.com/linktree