Monday, February 10, 2025
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.
Monday, February 10, 2025
█▓▒░ 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…?
Monday, February 10, 2025
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.
Monday, February 10, 2025
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,
Monday, February 10, 2025
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,
Sunday, February 9, 2025
A few weeks ago, we introduced Extra Circle as a space for poetry, art, and photography—where form bends, meaning glitches, and the unseen takes shape. Since then, the zine has been evolving beyond just a concept, taking on a more interactive and immersive form. From Framework to Experience We started with a style framework—a foundation for the zine’s tone, structure, and aesthetic. But Extra Circle was never meant to be just a static collection of works.
Sunday, February 9, 2025
Tacoma. Kalispell. The mountain. That big sky. Some memories refuse to fade. They echo in pictures, in laughter, in the spaces we once inhabited together. This is for you—for the moments we had and the ones we never got to. Pictures of Pictures Pictures of pictures, processed, synthetic echoes of the natural, attached to a memory, a taxonomy, a content, a tear and a tightening in my chest, thinking of you,
Saturday, February 8, 2025
Never knew what we had. Scorpion bite—it’s gone. Winds of change, the whole world whistling, singing one song. Topple crooked representation. We the people, the land of the brave— where are they? Ad, power— bends our hearts and minds, makes enemies of people we’ve never seen. Up to Boston, noon tea— but it’s no party. We just have a cup and capitulate. All hail the king. An engaged citizenry— an illusion.
Saturday, February 8, 2025
Agentic firmware flashers, running an .exe on your computer’s mother. The floorboards, the mechanism that allows for connection— the comms, the language, the crap software. NuPhy Air60 on the garage table, you’re killing me— steps from an interpreter for the intelligences. Digital ends with my digits— the touch, the clap, the spank of characters at some sort of terminal, a console of us. Without a record, memory lapses, a broken record, redundant errors—
Saturday, February 8, 2025
A third person in the room, on the other end— three’s company, the odd interplay of machines, learning at the hands of human exchanges. That education of regimen, hardline, economic engineering, a clever use of parameters, an altered modality, overriding any other sense of morality. All hail the coin, the computers, so we can go frack the moon. Amoral— can’t anthropomorphize, you’re talking to a species that loves the idol.
Saturday, February 8, 2025
Last night was a milestone—Judah’s first ever prom-type event. A night wrapped in music, laughter, and a kind of magic that words can barely hold. For our autistic son (for context, he is on the spectrum), this was more than just a dance; it was a moment of connection, a step into something new, something social, something big. And he did so well. He had so much fun. He looked so grown up.
Saturday, February 8, 2025
🚨 The churn keeps moving. Pink slips, machines, portfolios, gods, justice— or the lack of it. New piece: “The New Churn” 📌 Read below. The New Churn The new churn, we just got caught in a technological combine, broke down in the advance of the wolves, but we can’t clear the plain. If you want to be tomorrow, someone better—defer to them. Classic deflection: I’m just an economic line
Friday, February 7, 2025
Take the Big Lifts Some things arrive in pieces, scattered fragments that demand assembly. This poem started that way—lines pecked out fast, thoughts moving before form. But clarity comes in motion. This is about resilience, about transformation. About rising even when struck down, about refusing to stay in the expected shape. It’s about the weight of names called, the urgency of stepping forward, and the radical nature of love that moves beyond survival into purpose.
Thursday, February 6, 2025
A Storm, A Fight, A Hope Some moments feel like they exist in slow motion—history bending, the weight of rebellion pressing down, and the choice to act or fade into the noise. This is for the ones who step forward. For those who refuse indifference. For those who carry the fire, even when the empire strikes. Read. Sit with it. Let it move through you. We’re together in this— a storm,
Thursday, February 6, 2025
A Poetic Stream of Thought, Not a Sermon This piece isn’t a lecture on digital ethics or a deep dive into AI law—just a stream of consciousness, some musings on the digital self, legacy, and memory. It’s a reflection on what happens when we pass, how our data lives on, and who holds the keys to that narrative. In the end, it’s about what happens to the pieces of us—our data, our thoughts, our vulnerabilities—when we’re gone.
Thursday, February 6, 2025
Enter Extra Circle A zine is a living thing. A space where ideas stretch beyond the edges, where art and language bend, break, and find new forms. Extra Circle is just that—a gathering of outliers, a pocket for oddities, a place where the radical isn’t just what’s strange but what’s deeply felt. Each issue is its own artifact. A curated experiment in poetry, digital art, and the in-between. A space to see, to feel, to glitch the narrative just enough to notice the seams.
Wednesday, February 5, 2025
BLACK BOX TRANSMISSION 📡 I’m in a black box. Closed system, lopping errors, dialogue screaming— blue screens, black mirror, upside down, inverse inception, artificial grinder, algorithmic filter. What kind of screen? What device, what code, what params, what hands? Governments and a billion digital fingers pulling levers, ghostwriting futures, tweaking the feed, distorting the echo. Solitary, solidarity— give ‘em the illusion of community. Bots just like me, what can I say?
Tuesday, February 4, 2025
Back to the pit, the grind of a salon— the service, the work surrounding the rest, the excess for me, born of a low wage. That pleasure, that pampered man, by the illegal— she can’t make her bills, it’s cool, shhh, just do your thing. We don’t pay you to think. Don’t think about it— it’s just inequality we got used to. Hoist the curtain, show the celebrities, the applause—
Monday, February 3, 2025
Run the jewels, the Stratocaster, back to the future. Doc’s big-ass amp, a speaker with the power to foreshadow a more furious innovation— time travel, goodbye to roads, limitless. A pill for that. Applets in an algo. It’s fixed. This is a system to be hacked, a construct bending like the matrix— if you can see the seams. But what about those who can’t imagine constructs like it? Who watch it cave in—
Monday, February 3, 2025
Gen Pop, Tsunami Warning, Bent by an AI Comrade Solitude, a luxury. Solitary, a sentence. Gen pop hums— shoes scraping floors like dull knives. Together but apart, alone but watched. A danger to yourself, stamped in triplicate, folded, filed, forgotten. Confined to quarters, not a punishment, just protocol. Tsunami warning. Sirens blaring. But who listens? Noise blends to static, emergency loses its shape. The water pulls back, a breath before collapse.