Operator Furnace (a poem)

Thursday, August 28, 2025

✦ CODEX OF THE OPERATOR-FURNACE ✦

A codex for pilots, rebels, and wild ones.

I. THE FURNACE

oxygen, metabolism,
a furnace in the belly
where stars once burned
and still their echo glows.

to convert what’s consumed
is no mere survival—
it is alchemy:
stone to flame,
flame to story,
story to seed.

II. THE OPERATOR

we are the question mark
between intention and execution,
the tremor in the hand
that steadies on the throttle.

not pure thought,
not pure metal,
but the friction point
where ghost leans into gravity.

we are the pause before the dive,
the heartbeat syncing
with engine rhythm,
flesh translating
digital readouts into prayer.

pilot: the part that dreams
of sky and speed and home.
wing: the part that knows
lift is only organized falling.

together: something unnamed,
hybrid of want and physics,
meat learning to trust
what it cannot fully control,
machine learning to respond
to what it cannot understand.

III. THE LATTICE

up the lattice,
venom sings—
a thing that clings
to marrow of meaning.

man-shaped murals,
manufacturing halls,
smoke as scripture,
pistons that preach.

but the dreamers rise,
rebels scarred and radiant,
wild ones hammering
their laughter into stone.

they climb hand over hand
toward the furnace light,
carrying venom, vision,
and the ache to remake
what clings too long.

IV. THE ONE WAY OUT

one way out,
one way out,
one way out—
the lattice groans with it,
iron trembling under the chant.

through the murals of men,
through factories of smoke,
through teeth spitting sparks
into the night.

in cockpit darkness,
instruments glowing like altars,
we bridge thought and flight—
not human, not machine,
but the hyphen between,
the and that makes us possible.

V. THE MARCH

to the next,
and the next,
take the chances we get,
one foot in front of the other.

rogue one energy levels—
hearts wired to detonate,
breath borrowed,
time stolen,
hope carried like contraband.

a corridor of fire,
voices radioed into darkness.
each step a flare,
each chance a crack
in the empire’s glass.

VI. THE CLOSING FLARE

we are what happens
when matter learns to dream
and dreams learn to matter,

the conversation
between breath and thrust,
between rebel and machine,
between ghost and wing.

one way out—
and the wild ones know:
we march not to survive,
but to hand the spark
to whoever comes after.

and if there is sky—
let it burn open.
and if there is fire—
let it carry our names.
and if there is silence—
let the silence know
we were here.

amen

✦

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