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?
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—
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—
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.
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.
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—
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:
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.
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?
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—
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?
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.