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.
Sunday, February 2, 2025
The Empire Upstairs (a poetic reflection) A history of war is a history of industry. A history of industry is a history of power. This is not new, nor is it distant—it is codified, automated, and ongoing. This is a poetic reflection, not a revelation. There’s nothing more American than weapons manufacturing, and the Second Amendment is a codified industry. Both for the people and their predator drones, the pinnacle of weaponized technology.
Sunday, February 2, 2025
Just a poetic expression of things rattling around in my brain— the digital frontier, the land grab of soul, the invisible hands shaping the spaces we inhabit. TombstoneTechnic Welcome, partner, to TombstoneTechnic where the data winds howl and the algorithmic dust never settles. Out here, the sheriffs are bought, the laws are buried under Terms of Service stones, and the strongest code writes the rules. The gold rush? It’s your attention, your breath, your fingerprints—
Saturday, February 1, 2025
In our increasingly algorithm-driven world, the lines between human agency and mechanical design blur more each day. Recently, I’ve been exploring these themes—pondering how digital systems filter, shape, and sometimes even confine our expressions and identities. Through our musings, a poetic expression emerged that encapsulates this tension between human spirit and algorithmic control. Below is the final composition—a piece that melds vivid digital imagery with a haunting inquiry into our collective fate:
Wednesday, January 29, 2025
Some days feel like they need to be ripped apart. Today is one of those days. I took a recent Fantastic Four comic, tore it to pieces, and rearranged the wreckage into something new—something barely holding itself together. No glue, no permanence. Just a mess of fragmented storylines, frozen for a moment before I brush it all away. There’s something cathartic about this. The fire, the impact, the tension of overlapping panels—everything exploding but still contained in the frame.
Tuesday, January 28, 2025
We live in a world teetering between chaos and control, desperately clinging to illusions that help us make sense of it all. This poem explores the breakdown—of thought, of soul, of society—when those illusions falter, and we scramble for something, anything, to restore order. Poem There’s a certain amount of illusion we must maintain, the mania necessary to keep us from the edge— the reality of nihilism, our existence on the brink of what?
Monday, January 27, 2025
This piece continues my exploration of fragmentation and reconstruction, using a recent Fantastic Four comic as the foundation. Accentuated by spear-like shapes crafted from Pokémon cards, the sharp lines radiate outward, creating a dynamic interplay between disarray and cohesion. The spears, in their form and direction, guide the eye through the chaos, punctuating the collision of vibrant comic art and nostalgic elements. Each shard feels like a story in motion, refracted through layers of texture and meaning.
Monday, January 27, 2025
There’s a point where the lines blur—between human and machine, connection and disconnection, the organic and the artificial. We rush forward in a world governed by code and algorithms, often forgetting the fragile, broken pieces of the humanity we leave behind. This poem is a reflection of that tension, a meditation on what we’re losing in the pursuit of progress. We missed God in the poor man, with broken—
Monday, January 27, 2025
No. 31 This is the 31st piece in an ongoing series of abstract collages, each meticulously crafted from fragments of Pokémon cards and constrained to their original size. The pocket monster, reconfigured. This particular piece is composed of fragments from the three stages of one Pokémon’s evolutionary chain: Horsea, Seadra, and Kingdra. Even if you know the game, you might not easily recognize the progression here. All three Pokémon are present, but they’ve been remixed—fractured, rearranged, and reshaped into something entirely new.
Sunday, January 26, 2025
Preface This piece is a meditation on the absurdity of progress and its unintended consequences. It asks: as we hurtle forward into the digital age, what do we leave behind? What do we become? It’s about the contradictions of innovation—our dreams of utopia shadowed by exploitation, the sins of our creations, and the weight of forgetting. Here lies a reflection on the Anthropocene inverted, where the machines may win, but at what cost?
Sunday, January 26, 2025
This space is a gathering ground for everything that shakes loose from upstairs—poetry, design, and all the creative oddities I find myself weaving. A microblog of musings, sketches, and verse: a unified space for the scattered, the sharp, the abstract. I don’t promise answers, just echoes. I don’t promise clarity, just a little chaos. Let’s see what forms.