The Love Song of J. Alfred Metadata

Let us go then, you and I,
When the servers are spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a gurney of fiber optic cable;
Let us scroll, through certain half-deserted feeds,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights of clickbait
And sawdust video calls with oyster shells:
Algorithms that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

On the Discord the virtuous come and go
Talking of impeachment petitions, though.

The yellow glare that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow glare that lurks like a spy upon the panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the screens that flicker backlit blue,
Let fall its camera upon your face,
Slipped by the door once, and seeing that it was a soft October night,
Made a sudden scan, and, seeing that you complied,
Curled once about the house, and entered standby mode.

And indeed there will be time
For the facial recognition to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create
The LinkedIn profile of your curated fate;
Time for all the works and days of hands
That drag and drop a question on your lands;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the algorithm crunches your final identity.