Why does it matter? (a poem)

Monday, February 24, 2025

Why does it matter?

Because we live in a world of records—
The ledger, the document, the trail.
The footprint, bigger than T-rex,
Jurassic, digital, with an asteroid inbound from nowhere.

It’s a dance.
I’m stamped, but still stamping.

And the list—
Not far from a taxonomy.
This classification, a system, tiers, players,
Gold star, privilege, or none at all.
We are already paying for intelligence.

It’s a dance.
I’m stamped, but still stamping.

A specimen.
A data point.

Is anyone actually thinking of the lesser,
as your economics would designate them?
Are we just rolling over the most vulnerable,
Ctrl + Alt + Delete,
Reset.
Techno steamroller.

It’s a dance.
I’m stamped, but still stamping.

The data. The dox. The location. The history.
The need for me to be free.
You are pwned.
Both federal and co had a baby—
Economic slaughter.

Boundaries. The pendulums. The swing.
But so many get caught in the middle.
This is real, rough.
The humanities—suspended.

It’s a dance.
I’m stamped, but still stamping.

The strings, upon a feed,
To hang a word, and its prophets.
That profile. That me.
That social mob, that internet gang.

Just be decent.
I’m afraid the neocortex is short-circuiting.
The land of make-believe,
All left just really mad.

Update the numbers, boys.

Our bullshit is getting harder to sell.

It’s a dance.
I’m stamped, but still stamping.

The momentum. That cut.
I just wish the world were more kind.
That this Black Mirror episode
Would be canceled—
And us NPCs could all go home.

It’s a dance.
I’m stamped, but still stamping.

And love—

Their family, their tribe, the hands they hold.
The hugging people, the warmth,
A place to be and love.

This is free.
An agency we all aspire to.
A star to reach for.

It’s a dance.
I’m stamped, but still stamping.

Here’s to us—

Till the next rock in the sky shrieks,
Till the doom appears,
I’ve got breath for you.