A Killer Of Sheep
At its best, America (colonialism in general) was a discordant symphony, a moving, half-mangled pastiche of self-possessed poetry (and prose) etched onto grimy, working class faces to satisfy mostly white, evil, too smart over-men…
Then rules changed, so there is no “existential crisis” inside the robots and software that pad elite accounts under New Normal.
How then shall we proceed, now, in our duty to properly farm the sheep first before butchering?
Or, acting on conscience, do I simply join my birth country in self-immolation?
Contempt won’t allow me to choose. So please, let me hate some more first…