Monday, February 24, 2025
I dance in my garage almost daily, very rarely would I not get down, not boogie at least once or twice— the shake of me to the magic of music, can’t resist it. Call it sorcery, call it whatever, the spell still lingers, still hums beneath my skin, a phantom frequency, a tether. American girl— she still holds it over me, like a song half-sung, like a name I can’t forget,
Monday, February 24, 2025
Why does it matter? Because we live in a world of records— The ledger, the document, the trail. The footprint, bigger than T-rex, Jurassic, digital, with an asteroid inbound from nowhere. It’s a dance. I’m stamped, but still stamping. And the list— Not far from a taxonomy. This classification, a system, tiers, players, Gold star, privilege, or none at all. We are already paying for intelligence. It’s a dance. I’m stamped, but still stamping.
Sunday, February 23, 2025
🚨 Incoming Transmission: EXTRA CIRCLE // ISSUE ONE 🚨 The first issue of Extra Circle is coming online. A digital zine built from the static of lost messages, glitching memories, and corrupted transmissions. A deep dive into cyber-sadness, entropy, and digital ghosts. 🖥 Poetry & Digital Aesthetics // Experimental Typography 📂 Fragments of Collage & AI Corruption ⚠️ A System Log of the Future Decaying in Real-Time This issue integrates poetry, visuals, and digital distortion—a terminal interface unraveling in the process.
Sunday, February 23, 2025
WELCOME TO THE MACHINE Transmuted monologues drift in the mist of trees, the forest hums, the deep sea calls— lost in the wilderness, a desert island of thought. How did we get stuck? The numbers, the entering, the work of meaning— what? Did that even matter? The record turns, the needle drops— I love the record player. Not for the song, but for the repetition, for the quiet revolution humming in the static.
Sunday, February 23, 2025
Welcome to the Machine Person of Interest. Scripted before you spoke, tracked before you moved. Every choice—predicted, pre-owned, every thought—harvested, quantified. You cry every time, but the machine doesn’t care. The Core A bitter soul spiraling—no resets, no retries. Betrayal stains the script: a coat, a brother, a father’s sin. Legacy’s written, replayed, unchangeable. The Shift Ditch the arm, wield the mouth. Talk your way to wins when the field’s off-limits.
Sunday, February 23, 2025
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?
Sunday, February 23, 2025
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.
Sunday, February 23, 2025
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.
Sunday, February 23, 2025
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,
Friday, February 21, 2025
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
Friday, February 21, 2025
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.
Thursday, February 20, 2025
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.
Thursday, February 20, 2025
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,
Thursday, February 20, 2025
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.
Tuesday, February 18, 2025
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.
Saturday, February 15, 2025
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.
Wednesday, February 12, 2025
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,
Wednesday, February 12, 2025
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.
Wednesday, February 12, 2025
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,
Tuesday, February 11, 2025
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.