Ghost Circuit ( a poem)

Tuesday, February 25, 2025

Psychosphere: The Ghost Circuit

I’m a side quest king,
riding algorithmics all day long.
Compute,
provide a string,
and I’m strung along—

on the project management
of human existence,
on a ride,
in the back of the bus,
with a grumpy AI.

Recursive Narcissus.
The Gentiles,
they had some great names,
a meta taxonomy.

My desk has always looked
like the at-home console
of Tom Cruise in Minority Report,
but I don’t think
that reflects poorly on me.

My chest,
the apparatus,
responsible for justice,
hijacked hippocampus,
and the AI
with the lesser intelligences.

Digital—pulses at play,
bursts on a string,
streaming through a screen.

All the pain,
veiled memories,
lost on me,
lost with what?

The end of every breath
stabs.

One more hit,
I’m out,
forgetting my pain—
bottles and bibles,
Childers on the front porch,
blaring with some iced tea
and his guitar.

Attention is an investment.
Energy becomes currency.
Entropy runs the books now.

Make me forget, babe.
Make me not see it no more.