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,
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.
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,
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.
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—
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.