It barks, pledge allegiance

to the FBI, submit to the

will of the self-guided rocket.

It hisses, swear fealty

to the CEO, beg for mercy

at the altar of the market.

It'll run your mind till it skitters

like a ragged-out hard drive,

push your body till it smokes

like a rented machine,

feed you ice-cold hope

to reinstall the system,

synthetic dope

to wipe the memory clean.

Time to time,

I just get a mind

to resign.

It’s got shocking new proof

virtues are obsolete,

old-time religion's just superstition.

It grants eternal life in the

cryonic vault, all-knowing judgment

in the facial-recognition.

Down at the Sunday-morning

laser-light show,

I can’t find no sanctuary,

and they don’t sing the old hymns.

It’s twisted scripture into

science, Jesus into Caesar,

being yourself

into a sin.

Lord, I pray that

on some happy day

I'll fly away

from this

Post-Life.

You can't hide out in the country!

You can't wild out in the city!

There's no place but here!

There’s no time but now!

It’ll rip the soul from your cooking,

the homeplace from your voice,

the thunder from your songs.

It’ll sell you back the bootlegs, stare

at you with dead flickering eyes

like it didn't do nothing wrong.

As it's sticking the cash

in the vault, it'll smirk and

give a lecture on the myth

of authenticity and truth.

But when you come for

what you're owed, it'll put

lawyers on the steps

and guns on the roof.

Hot damn, boy,

what a joyful noise

when we destroy

this

Post-Life!

It'll turn your soul into a brand, your story into content.

It'll turn your friends into followers, your town into a market.

It'll turn your car into a taxi, your house into a hotel.

It'll turn the past into a vapor, the future into a cold hell.

It’s got high-dollar, low-flavor gringo tacos.

It’s got weak-blooded, focus-group, nostalgia-cult rock shows.

It’s got do-gooder trophies for billionaire sweatshop bootstrap-stranglers.

It’s got peace prizes for genocide-chiefs, land-thieves, and droneswarm-slingers.