Myth Firmware (a poem)

Tuesday, August 26, 2025

Myth fluency, sub routines,
the firmware, favoring story —
this is the air we psychos breathe,
this is the air we psychos breathe.

To ritualize is instinct,
a narrative reflex,
a story for everything,
since the first name was given.
A story for everything,
since the first name was given.

The net, the mesh, the nodes and knots,
the entangled weave,
jutting northeast to the next axis,
singing chains of meaning,
a story for everything.

Four to each point,
and they shoot out to the next set,
which do the same,
exponent march —
we are the replicators,
we are the replicators,
taking what we need
to get over there.

Id and ego rehearse their questions,
till they demand
answers of the physicality itself.
The firmware breathes,
the blood machine answers,
and still the questions press.

Eye, ear, tongue, air —
diagram, press,
that hum, that guttural growl,
that grunt and gesture,
that grunt and gesture.
Singing chains of meaning
dance in an array,
we all can celebrate,
we all can celebrate.

Another layer, another stack,
buried in each,
the impulse and the evolution.
Now we smile and say please,
civil gestures over primal growls,
ritual etiquette hiding the firmware’s teeth.

I can’t operate outside —
the event horizon
beyond the blood machine,
that beating loud,
heaving chest,
grabbing for O₂,
gobbling up the water,
this is the air we psychos breathe.

What did we learn
from our travels in the flesh suit?
This echoes back —
all the cells asking,
all the cells asking:
Are we there yet?
How much longer?
Are we there yet?
How much longer?

This is the air we psychos breathe,
a story for everything,
since the first name was given.
We are the replicators.
We all can celebrate.
We all can celebrate.

⸻

The scroll is closed,
the firmware humming,
the body still beating,
the myth still weaving.
Until the next axis.