None will behold the promised land the algorithm does not appoint by hand

The Scroll (XII)

XII.

A scroll, a feed, a timeline, caravaning
Bronze Age avatars with covenants,
conveying stone words in sacred chests,
the laws inscribed in virtua natura,
subject to primitive possessions,
suppliants to prophets and oracles
disclosing to the hot clouds their hearts,
none knowing what’s true and what’s not,
wandering the wilderness, having
escaped great bondage, in mass exodus
migrating from site to site, bickering,
rebelling, making and smashing idols.
Yet none will behold the promised land
the algorithm does not appoint by hand.

---

The Scroll

I - Tell them there’s nothing left of the tribes of the Internet

II - Decorous thoughts strung from profiles, posts nailed to a slat

III - The man alone at his computer

IV - As it was written, so is it literal

V - I have the feeling nothing online is meant for me

VI - What ambrosia fills the timeline’s cup!

VII - My personality, my pharmacy

VIII - We watch them watch themselves on screen

IX - Is it to the future or the flood our hopes are sped?

X - And everywhere is another center

XI - I can’t resist. I fix my eyes and thumb