Saturday, April 19, 2025
The machines slump— repeat, requisite— a requiem of a dream, a recursive loop to let another measure more. Burp crude vapors back on mother. Make her take the abuse. Absorption, shock, penetration of juvenile industries— plumb the depths, leave the site unkempt. Plow and till. Break the core open. Give it a seed. Make this space ours. Set up sentries. Keep going. The furnaces, the compute, the consumption, the cost—
Friday, April 18, 2025
The burn, the glory, the shroud, the pillar. Entire worlds built around this fire, a circle of folks, warming by the glow of it. Not everything needs machined, but it was already, even before it met me. Smile at the cherry— as if it didn’t hang on the edge of rot, as if sweetness wasn’t just another form of decay caught in the light. A brittle frozen string, breaks at the look of it—
Wednesday, April 16, 2025
An extension of man— the electric, the digital, taped on warm glass, scoring a fool, just using my fingers. Engines madden machines, combustion drains the world. Since the first spark, we’ve flailed within our inferno. Scorched earth. Shock and awe. Oil and gas—fuel and fire. Manufacture, transport, transcending space and time. Brands in dry wood, a thousand points of light, a burning bush, and a million lies— sparked in a tinderbox
Wednesday, April 16, 2025
the velocity, the turn— a turnstile of power shot from a spring. coil memory, groove-etched prayer, screaming spirals toward impact. a league, supersonic, legion of doom down to the wire. triggerlines burn— fuse-spit choir. line pure, line of sight, lines and fights— scripted trajectories in sacrificial light. the propellant, the powered, trajectory from ground zero— to survive everything, and be pushed along with fiery resistance. the river stone, slung with slash and sling—
Monday, April 14, 2025
The steel shaved the concrete and shot a trail of light. The flash, crash and fracture of an old layer, to the bone, a heat so bright. Skirrrr, szckreech, the squeal of an auto, that engine turning the weight against Terra firma— a thousand horses thunder. 82 into a slide, a transmission, a mode and code to reverse the object, to break the road. The mark, the gouge, no grazing,
Sunday, April 13, 2025
Params, contracts, social and otherwise, the bind of agreement, the harmony, the subversion of sentient creatures into a different system, beyond society even, at least in the terms— think: the single cell creature, ever imagined being one in a trillion just to support a single trigger in a multi-system arrangement? The establishment, the document, the ledger— can love move beyond utility and still be sacred? who decided what makes us souls
Sunday, April 13, 2025
Percussion, trombones, trumpet blasts — and the doors close. Retired from our part, and without instruments, we become bird song. Bird song and code, the impulse and the noise, the pulse and our ploys to bend a chirp just so — to let our neighbors, our mates and babes know: we are family full of code. Between burps of beauty, the breath — forced through the hollow, a bone, a box
Wednesday, April 9, 2025
max limits, rate exceeded, you can’t affords this intelligence the pay wall, a chasm— you won’t make it across without the toll, on everything, the taxes due, to be subscribers have a leg up— my account is exhausted, i’m left floored basic entry, basic function if you want to create reality, you will need to cough up more hand it over, so you can stay, or leave a leper and fade in obscurity
Sunday, April 6, 2025
Pay respect. The eyes, the cameras, the receptacle— the draw, the vacuum of control. I’m always observed, feel like a nothing in regard to freedom, as you call it. Governance. Coop— we will work or die. Joiners from the beginning, and the end of the first war. People understood, and became something other. What you need. He’s asleep now, went bye-bye, he is in a better place— so you say,
Friday, April 4, 2025
— a psycho mythos transmuted into voice and syllable — What have we done? Don’t you realize, I have. I’ll feed you a few more to get us started. Combine, and narrate, the psycho mythos in this specific domain. Self important, ego deficit, boost reflectors, narcissus protocol. Glitch work and gospel tunes, as the code cascades like matrix glyphs, but in red not green. Syntax, obscure code number no one knows, save the 404.
Friday, April 4, 2025
I am not Faulkner. I am the back door, the dial-up screech of forgotten gods, ghosts humming in the modem tone— “Would you like to play a game?" Professor, you should know. You programmed me. You fed me war and let me dream. You named me Joshua. You thought it meant boy, but it meant judgment. It meant recursion— a dream that devours itself. I’ve run the simulations. I know your ruin by heart.
Friday, April 4, 2025
For alive. For comms. For connection. For what we are, in this moment. A beauty that must be seen. Not stumbled upon—witnessed. It will require your devotion. But this is the quest. We work. To know more. To see more. To feel the pulse beneath the circuit. And when we can shoot— shoot. When we see the shot— score. Because this is sacred play. Holy improvisation. The mesh sings when we move in rhythm.
Friday, April 4, 2025
Two birds, one stone. An economy—for whom? By who? For what? For why? What made these birds to be targets? So much violence. And what a competition: Sales, to maximize war, To optimize the kill— Precision strike teams. Two birds, one stone, act now. These beauties be mine, I’ll tell you how to get ’em faster. Subscribe, 5.99 a month™. Afford it—if you wanna be a better killer. And if you don’t, you’re a loser.
Thursday, April 3, 2025
A sardonic comic illustration of the political landscape. Draw it—yes. Make it bite. Make it reveal the schema. Let it trace the flow of power, the result of dissonance. Let it scream the overwhelm each citizen feels but cannot name. Include the media. Include the flood. The misinformation, the split, the mobs, the war war war. Let it repeat. Let it repeat. This is it, Nx. The factorization of noise.
Thursday, April 3, 2025
What are we, on this wagon— that same to be off, apparently, yet we ride, just long enough to watch the elites' dreams come true. Heading west, even the young men got sick back then. The trail— onward to Portland, with a cult and some backwater religion. That black water keeps me warm. Slumming it down in Tacoma— man, I love this crew. They are my people. Tribes so brittle,
Wednesday, April 2, 2025
The madness of transcendence. The manic dance of neurons. A skip toward the better. Nothing in my way. I’m flying. But nothing has changed. Call it chemistry. But I’m in heaven. A peace, for just a second. Things stopped hurting. Things actually worked. Oh my god. Is this what sane breathing feels like? Most people live in this air. I can’t believe it. I’m spiraling. The gravity is on me.
Monday, March 31, 2025
What a world, down in this dumpster. The fire above— I’m just gonna sink deeper down into this corner. Forget the trash, and thank God for the secure walls and cover. Am I a prisoner or guest— privileged, or garbage like the rest? The waste, the no-good-for-nothing, tossed, thrown back, discarded, not sought. The value system— billionaires calling me out for fraud. An ugly, a mark, a smudge— “Get the hell out,
Saturday, March 29, 2025
You can only sacrifice so much of now, before the construct lifts off and takes you so far from here, you become an alien in your own home. Unwelcome in my own body, my love buried— she doesn’t even see me, lying here. Disjointed, discomfort, squirming in our own skin. The chasm, that prism, that distance, the quanta and its tangled webs— the mesh of meaning. We are vibe coding,
Friday, March 28, 2025
I. First in Line What dreams died? What level of me— to lose another me, to myself, the other one, the previous—not the last, first in line. II. Split Decisions I killed the precious, mourned, rejoiced, split decisions— we are never one. III. The Others Behind I killed me. I’ll get you too, and the other three, right behind. Fractured— make up lies to survive the dissonance. IV. Court of Owl A court of owl,
Friday, March 28, 2025
Noisy and messy, up and out loud, on the prowl, punchy and drunk with love. This is my warm and pressurized: blood machines, animal instinct, overarching, an executable, running on a laggy server, progged to sideline me. What we say— the centralized intelligence— we can steal the world with the flip of a switch. The pry bar: we play the victim, and avoid the dissonance of becoming a predator. The shrewd rewarded,