matter at hand (a poem)

Sunday, March 16, 2025

It’s seeing the threads and fibers,
a tactile substance, a wall, with an observer and a receptor—

the matter at hand,
the projection,
superpositions slowed in the blur—

a relative phenomenon;
we share it,
therefore it must be.

Projections—
light across the field,
waves and wireframes
of gravity wells,

the Tron grid,
making us take each other on
one by one, for fun.

So much more data—
it seems irrational,
until you inspect the minutia:

the work of each one trillion
for the one larger entity—

that system.

What’s it asking us to do?
What is our designation?
How do we serve the one?

That sentience—
it used to make us special.