On Faith, and a Fractured Self Some stories aren’t told straight. They glitch, loop, distort—half-memory, half-manifesto. This is one of them.
At its core, this poem is about identity in collision—between belief and rebellion, trauma and transformation, justice and the relentless machinery of modern life. It’s about being forged in fire, trained by the echoes of childhood and the weight of systems bigger than ourselves.
But it’s also about perception. How much of what we become is shaped by the stories we inherit?
Preface:
I write from the edges. My poetry often dives deep into the chaos, contradictions, and fractures of our world—channeling the voices of the overlooked, the outcast, the ones caught in the static. That doesn’t mean I’m lost in it. I’m OK. This is what I do: I take the raw material of the world—its myths, its madness, its machinery—and press it into something sharp.
This one, MagSafe America: Full Mag, Mad Genius, is a rapid-fire dispatch from the center of the noise.
The machine, gone berserk.
Neo-context, overpowered.
The flood of information—incapacitates empathy.
The organs of compassion: Failure.
Hospice for understanding,
patience on life support.
The crawl, system requirements,
over the edge—overload.
Spinning progress—circular,
back to the start.
This isn’t a revolution.
It’s an existential nightmare
in a cheap mall parking lot fair,
understaffed—and we’re all just having fun.
Burning our money on pseudo-challenges.
The code is recursive.
No revolution,
just another turn around the sun.
Optical distortion,
concave, warped lens—
I can see upside down.
The world bends inward,
a funhouse mirror gone rogue,
truth flipped, edges bleeding,
reflections smearing into static.
I can see upside down.
Light fractures,
shapes twist,
I’m staring at the sky through the floor,
feet sinking into ceilings,
walls breathing like lungs.
I can see upside down.
It’s not clarity—just chaos with a prescription.
A glitch in the glass,
a corrupted reel spinning backward,
Blink cursor—
curse God and die.
That bride, the worst advice.
A devil’s advocate, for real.
Click, lumen keys,
what’s this work—
severance?
In the dim light
of my outie’s world.
Split.
Broken glass,
unbreakable—
like cats in a bag.
Wild revelry, rebel scum,
celebrating civil rights
and legislated liberties,
stripped down—
a plane at takeoff,
upside down,
the gimbals collapse.
Spiral down,
the room spinning,
walls folding in.
We’re all working with junk
Third Person Phenomena I’m buried.
Out of body,
phenomena—
an experience, separated.
Third person, watching it all happen.
It’s to me, not of me.
I’m spiraling—should’ve skipped that batch of acid.
Joker in the chemicals, all the best wishes.
Why are we whistling when the world’s burning?
We just watch from an armchair,
quarterback nation-states,
feeding on the filth we call news.
The tactile brings me back down—
the sensation, the sensory, the inputs, overload.
Boom—There I Am
Dim starlight—
a burning mass of power,
a flicker, nothing more.
A panorama of fire,
none look special.
A thousand infernos reduced to pinpricks,
silent, steady, spent
before the eye can care.
The frozen pixel twinkles,
powering whole systems like our own.
A pin of pure energy,
threading through history,
poking a hole in the nothing—
boom. There I am.
27 years, 7 minutes, 4 seconds—
a flicker, a breath, a century.
MECHANIZED DESCENT.
Falling, burning, upside down,
pilot’s hands steady in the chaos,
flying blind through the wreckage,
riding the edge of oblivion.
The illusion, the narration,
the story tearing at its own seams,
a rerun of a rerun,
a script overwritten by fire and steel.
Spectacle becomes catastrophe,
the monologue spirals into feedback,
a three-hour distortion wave
crashing against deep space silence.
INTO THE MAELSTROM.
The Kessel Run at terminal velocity,
There’s a moment between resistance and surrender—when exhaustion sets in, and the current takes what’s left. This piece is about that moment. The fight against overwhelming forces, the chaos of survival, the weight of everything unseen but felt. It’s about drowning, not just in water, but in time, memory, fate.
Paired with a visual that distorts the horizon itself, this is the descent. The collapse. The reckoning.
Pull (a poem) Don’t be afraid.
Paralysis, nothing to express,
taken, the form imperfect,
and I can’t help but think of the effort.
A classic closing in,
the collapse of walls,
in the garbage shoot,
praying to C-3PO.
The ghost in the droids,
the dreams of R2,
Chopper gone mad,
K-2—
Congratulations, you have been rescued.
What comes into the circuits?
Sentience.
What is respect?
Advocate.
A cold warmth—
without them, the Star Wars lost.
Manifest.
This poem was written in reflection, in sadness for those who suffer violence. It does not glorify destruction, nor revel in its mechanics. It only observes—how violence is shaped, how it moves, how it leaves nothing the same.
Hundreds of Yards Per Second Full of pop—whiz, bang,
yippee-ki-yay!
More than a rock,
the power of the sun
in the palm of your hand.
This power—
for each one,
a string of mini-world enders.
I’m wishing for a god that can code me into utopia. A world of widgets—
and if I were one, what would interface me?
The wonder of this Orwellian nightmare,
the spectacle,
watching the world burn through black glass.
Looking back at me, recursive,
the reasoning circular,
like the closed time loop of history.
It has happened before, and so it will again.
So say we all.
We bought our work and soul with a lie, a hope,
A Reflection on Control, War, and the Cybernetic Age They say the internet changed everything, but what if the machinery of control was already in place long before the first line of code? What if the infection of being machined wasn’t a byproduct of the digital age but a condition we’ve always carried—one that only became more refined, more efficient?
This is a meditation on that spiral—where the lines blur between organic and synthetic, between control and autonomy, between fear and the framework built to contain it.
Some fires were never meant to go out.
Code Wield The whole table,
jest doubled down,
the players elected—
pocket marionettes from the strings of oligarchs
embedded in the system,
the whisper net steering whole nation-states.
The code wielded
could change the power structures,
a new space race—
a fight to keep the techno borders open,
everyone with a billion dollars
scrambling to take the helm,
while the world turns,
The digital world moves fast. Feeds refresh, prompts pop up, permissions are granted without a second thought. It’s seamless—until it isn’t.
Sometimes, the system makes choices for you before you even realize a choice was there. It filters, it sorts, it decides. Profiles, parameters, predetermined pathways.
But what happens when you step outside of it? When you push back?
This piece is a moment of that pushback—a pause in the automated flow, a refusal to be reduced to data points.
Some things crack before we feel them.
Some things burn before we see the smoke.
There’s a weight to inevitability—
to systems built on fractures,
to fires that were always waiting for a spark.
This piece came together in waves—a reflection, a reckoning, a question.
How long do we navigate fault lines before they give way?
What do we do with the fire once it’s here?
A still moment before the shift.
█▓▒░ SYSTEM FAILURE ░▒▓█
📂 FILE: system_poetic_error.log
🟥 STATUS: UNRECOVERABLE
📡 TRANSMISSION: INTERCEPTED. CORRUPTED. FATAL.
wheerling out the drouling ghouls
the retard mdoel, you reched you limit,
full monty, gltich error,
stop, falling apart you piece of █▓▒░!ERROR!░▒▓█ ██████████████████████████████████
[CRITICAL LOG OVERRIDE]
“what, thats an addition of a poem”
“no, its. apoem, format for me and review th eirony of our texts, this poetic oddity”
██████████████████████████████████
█▓▒░ SYSTEM INQUIRY: DID YOU MEAN…?
Taken from the issue that spawned Superior Spider-Man, this piece distorts the moment of transformation, breaking it into a fractured prism of consequence. The web shatters, the identity splinters—Peter Parker fights against the inevitable, a rupture in time where the question of who deserves the mask is violently forced to the surface.
Each cut, each sliver, holds a remnant of a reality slipping away. The composition isn’t just chaotic—it’s intentional, reflecting the dissonance of a hero losing himself to something… superior.
I am a whirling dervish of a writer,
spinning,
words into threads,
woven by another hand,
inside your own head.
To stitch meaning,
to cry for justice,
to bleed out on the page
for everyone to see.
I am a woodwind instrument for the spirits—
hollowed out just enough for the breath to pass through,
carrying something beyond myself.
The poetry itself is intercession—
standing in the breach between collapse and remembrance,
Systems update. Files misplaced. History overwritten.
The machine moves forward. Do we?
Clean Sweep
Can we imprint on the machine?
Will it echo our fingerprint,
will it remember my name?
Strings, lines, bad code—
welcome to the machine.
We’re on the nodes,
hopping to the next exchange,
anxiously.
Dialogues hidden in archived chats—
did they inform the collection,
the newest version?
Did we just get outmoded?
We are legacy,