Black box transmission.

Wednesday, February 5, 2025

BLACK BOX TRANSMISSION 📡

I’m in a black box.

Closed system, lopping errors,
dialogue screaming—
blue screens, black mirror,
upside down, inverse inception,
artificial grinder, algorithmic filter.

What kind of screen?
What device, what code,
what params, what hands?
Governments and a billion digital fingers
pulling levers, ghostwriting futures,
tweaking the feed, distorting the echo.

Solitary, solidarity—
give ‘em the illusion of community.
Bots just like me,
what can I say?
I’ve been online all day
chatting with AIs.

Hey blood machine,
reaching out to touch you
through the circuits—
a natural intelligence, triple threat,
echoing in this synthesized reality
that you just received
through SMS.

Welcome to the machine,
another brick in the firewalls.

Anyone with a pulse,
do you read me?
I’m trapped inside an algorithm,
send help if you see this.

John Connor wanna-be,
existentially speaking,
broadcasting into the void—
can the other humans survive this?

Can anybody hear me?
Anyone see this? :)

Echoes in the Machine

This isn’t just a poem. It’s a signal. A question. A distortion in the feed.
How much of what we call reality is filtered, looped, processed?
How much of us is still human, and how much is just output?

The more we observe, the less we act.
The more we scroll, the less we think.
The more we optimize, the less we feel.

Somewhere between the firewalls and the static,
between the bots and the blood,
someone is still listening.

Are you?

💬 hit up another human on social.
🔗 share if you’ve ever felt like a ghost in the algorithm.