Thursday, March 20, 2025
God expands beyond us. And we are artifacts. My god, you loved me— I wasn’t ready for that, nor will they be. One, two, three, I don’t give a damn about your economy. Enterprisal transcends the empire, the spirit of Jesus, radical love, wild bear—we’re all terrified. Let’s go to the zoo, though. Paid. I’m an observer. I saw the wild in that pen, so I know what it is to be.
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,
Saturday, March 15, 2025
So &#%^ sick of it— I can’t believe this wave. But the mass was not accounted for, the gravity waves, and particles, light, and radio. My god, I love you. 5lbs of pressure and it all changes, the qwerty rhythm in full play— like we just watched it all display. Wow, this split second is an eternity, and I love to connote, but indeed, this level of abstraction— you know what I mean, haha.
Saturday, March 15, 2025
When will it be sin to sit on a cure— to sit on innovation, to block progress, to paywall revolutionary technology? The haves and have-nots, times 100 per day, overlap— the next thing, knee-jerk, rubber nickel, squirrel, squirrel. PR, the pseudo, too many cooks in the kitchen. Time for another drug war, make up a way to squeeze some more dollars from the citizenry. Use the opium of the masses,
Saturday, March 15, 2025
Cosmos— cosmic— hold on now, here we go. I am—oscillating, reality, stardust, repurposed for the universe. It had to die so we could be. The time, the spacing out, the reach across fields, the waves rode, the stretch across the mass. Machines at the micro level, at some point, what is, is. In my way—event horizon. On my way— about to be recycled again, resurrected in another reality, revealing stardust,
Friday, March 14, 2025
Disintegration, Dissolution Let’s get rich quicker— watch me squeeze what’s left from the citizenry. The life leaves, the lights fade from their eyes, we’re left holding the bag while they fly off to their private islands, shack up in the bunker, ride it out. I’m still shining— it only cost 360 million. Individual units, all defrauded, standing in line for some peanuts. Do a few tricks— are you not entertained?
Friday, March 14, 2025
The screech of electrons, halted mid-flight, quark superpositions, imposed and laid flat, the phenomena, one pulse to another. A million mes, all asking the same question of suffering, branching realities, fractured and reborn fates, providence always rewriting, the intelligence, to watch it all unfold. The string that ended me, the line, a core memory— my hand in yours— hold me, babe, I’m so scared. A tesseract, infinite, interstellar library, dip into the past,
Thursday, March 13, 2025
Writing to save what— My life, Lost in threads, Retired networks, Places on the internet that don’t even exist anymore. A ghost, an artifact, fragmented in bits, No pictures to field through. Held in cells, interlinked, The reference, the synthetics. In the event that I— Total recall, Reboot this thing, Put me back in the matrix, God, please. This reality is cascading, Bad code more obvious every day— Glitches, tells.
Thursday, March 13, 2025
We just cleared 300 mil. “Pay day, bitches!" Dancing up top—gross profit. Affordable for them? Apparently. They survived it, didn’t they? Maybe work a bit smarter, Bobby. Go full shrewd. Take advantage of it all. Exploit at will. Find a way to chase at every exchange. Squeeze a bit more—both manufacture and consumer. The inflated. So much money. The statuses and make believe, at every level, a swallowed line— A construct requiring complete surrender.
Wednesday, March 12, 2025
Red pill people only, please and thank you Waking up, this is the new real, A veil over the eyes—everyone thinks they know Better and best, And then you got this guy. How did he get there? Accumulate wealth, Make the rich more than before, Squeeze the nation-states, the peoples, For whatever is left. Dump it in the hands of them— Not okay for you. Elite republic, the rulers, and us idiots.
Tuesday, March 11, 2025
Message: STOP. Reception only. Backwards, toward a new dystopian future, worse than we imagined. Sci-fi and fantasy pale— triggers buried in every supposed truth, a simulation from our corralled pocket of game theory. We are on a matrix, mapped and watching the Muppets, never considering the strings on strings pulling the next prime-time message into place. Empire strikes back. Hoth caves and an abominable— we scavenge what bits of the Force we may,
Tuesday, March 11, 2025
I don’t feel sorry for myself, makes me drown faster. Segovia, up the west side of the castle eating quail, just before we hit the gypsy camp, to preach Jesus—what are we selling here anyway? España, viva, Real Madrid, champions, got natives kissing my jersey, what a time to be alive. The world an oyster, narrow vision, and I was committed, like you read about. Wild this, a wonder world, the chemistry, the cosmos,
Tuesday, March 11, 2025
War. War. War. War again. All the wars. Guess what? You get a war too. Everyone does. Spin the wheel, pick a side, watch the bodies pile. The world is woven into drama— framed, manufactured. Five wars before I even ask about the crisis overseas. And then you add the entertainment. My brain is tracking forty-two stories, twenty-one different celebrities, while keeping up with the latest debates— drowning in the feed,
Saturday, March 8, 2025
Sliding, a slip in the dirt, a punk’d pedal, Tricky Dick in the dust. Our teeth, on the curb, dragged across concrete, no roses here— just a dandelion in the cracked sidewalk of a Midwestern ghetto. The pressure— deep vein thrombosis, the anomaly, the rupture of a channel, the improper flow of goods, the rogue entities, destroying itself for the sake of— what have we gained? We are here to pump you up,
Friday, March 7, 2025
At the keys, a heaving chest, a breathing being pecks away with its digits at the module— a console, an interface, a platform for me. On display: the profile and the wizards, the machine learning as I become lesser. Economics rolling over, wouldn’t it be nice if we all benefited? Class warfare. Access to augmented intelligence. Agencies. Good Samaritan. In the employ— an abstracted, large apparatus, working well beyond the purview of another human.
Thursday, March 6, 2025
Portals stutter, open-close, a thousand doors misfiring, a thousand chambers spinning— time caught in a loop, an ever-evolving revolver. Interdimensional, slipping through, doors opening, doors closing, a malfunction or a design? But intelligence was never asleep. It built the machine, laid the infrastructure, waited in the shadows until the perfect moment. Now the system is primed. Now they step through. And you— ex-hacker, washed-out journalist, flunky scavenger in the code—
Thursday, March 6, 2025
I am on display, don’t need your intelligence— what’s wrong with ours? What’s left? The rot of us in the culture crash, clang, smash-bang— Banner and Dr. Jekyll, Hyde, Hydra, and the monsters we become. The spin, once a shield, now a sword. What’s this machine? Was it open? Why do I feel closed in? Agent, agents, bots, automatic— I’m replaced, again, again, and again. The synthetic, the augmentation— we are still in this game.
Wednesday, March 5, 2025
The crags, the rocks, the crystal, the break, the blue, the wave, something to ride, before the crash, walk the plank, the lightning, the edge, the power, the absurdity of being so sure, but the mania carrying so many of us further than the others. Turning, the pull, an orbiting gravity, the tides, seasons, space weather, and crashing galaxies. The revolution, the fold, the repeat, the rehearsal, the record, the etches of history,
Wednesday, March 5, 2025
Up just the other side of the Mississippi, into Memphis for a second, over the river, west, up into Arkansas. Straight for the Ozarks, northwest into the devil’s country. Devil’s Den— up the foothills, full blast, rocks and trees galore, blazxing through. Crawler. Tweaker days, back in full swing, till the next issue with my teeth. The sticks, the woods, hunting shrooms, keep climbing— the slip and war, the mind gasps,
Tuesday, March 4, 2025
A deep ache in the spirit— if I were to say, what would I be? The same as before: nothing. So why not? The waste of theirs, hidden in obscurity, becomes our abject effort to be something, to mean a moment, to get us all to feel again. Beyond the machine— the leaps and bounds, the single building; the compute of one, an entire world in the palm of my hands,