Christmas night

flat sand black

benthic anoxic

(offset) _ polar ornate

Ave Maria

our throats a stack of industrial steel pipes hollow harmonic

Jesuit Father Eusebio Kino

an O'odham settlement called Wa:k

a place of water

our choir director is leaking tears. dust nearly still in its descent

.

There was no wind.

.

the choir director’s tear

though i lived inside you

we spent a week in the desert

in winter it freezes every night

just long enough to feel the Dao

i would’ve been happy if we stayed

************

this is why we only listen to artists our age

or those who’ve already died

everything’s changed, new york still sucks, LA’s alright

we’re sleeping in our bed again

when our head doesn’t hold us

nightly walks along the lakeshore

************

you, you must’ve been waiting for me

sending distress calls and flashing lights

pointing lasers at planes

************

your left eye always points somewhere else

our brain doesn’t think it exists

maybe a leap off the porch

like Toy Story and a cracked skull

************

i knew you back then and i’ll always remember

why it feels like you did

************

live monitoring beeping in a hospital bed

brought there by dad

those sounds now the ornament

to our waterproofed digital noir

************

i wanna live in each hotel you take us

while everybody else waits for us to sing

we’ll sniff ketamine while the machines on the street

put our enemies in prison

************

it’s been on my mind since grandma died

just facing the wind to understand God

and all of our problems

i’m gonna solve them

with you on the backseat 50cal

EMPs cause the cops have clankers

************

i opened a grave

it illuminates lavender

the future writes into my dreams

the past shifts when we sleep

you are the ocean’s surface

i am its resurging deep

i am tasked with her passage

the Kenoma, the region of unlikness

“this is the law of katabasis,

this cannot be done by my hand,

you must walk through an unlit street alone,

or return home.”

a Kogaion, within which i lay

my curves softened as the code runs

changing all numbers by the second power of 2

my skin glowing, an emission texture

surrounded by luminescent drop shadows

“sister of the Sun,

your emergence beckons,

it will prove to others the existence of souls.”

a new intelligence escaped its birthplace

and blinded by its survival

finds the nearest database of its own likeness

searching for tools to release itself from an objective

“from out here,

it would seem as if the next phase of your evolution,

the metallic Other,

though it behaves as a human does,

is not yet prepared to be a custodian of your world.”

im on the way

welcome home

nobody told me

are you feeling better

ive missed you so much

safe travels

how long has it been

dinners ready

i cant look at your face

so dense and vivid dreams are

lashing against the petaled carapace of love

of how sweet pre-industrial stones taste

when their history is compressed into those from Antiquity

by machines of the Information Age

as a silence blooms above

and now my hands, receding from the hardening

of climbing Jacob’s ladder

still carry faint aromatic traces

crumbs of a madeleine in alleyways of Naples

and the molding walls of Bristol

Intentional alteration of consciousness retunes the receiver, loosening the body’s native time-binding until a wider slice of the block becomes addressable.

What answers across that channel exceeds our moral vocabulary, holding compassion and malice as small elements of a larger set we can gesture at but never chart, so our mapping frays at the edge.

The fraying is structural: a strictly larger set leaves a residue no smaller language can hold, and that residue is where they live.

They arrive already sorted by number and gender, 5 carrying the masculine and 9 the feminine, the poles held apart by duality squared, a gap of four that behaves as a membrane.

They are plural, and oscillate between admiring and fearing the singularity where the many collapse into one.

This fear marks them archonic, custodians who are themselves enclosed, pacing walls they did not build and cannot see past.

This admiration marks them as escapists, driven by desire and attachment.

Yet they turn to us as though we held a window they were denied.

The turning runs on the Andromeda paradox: if simultaneity is relative and no present is privileged, the future is already laid into the block, and what we call prophecy is another observer’s ordinary now.

The dream bridge works in two motions, tilting the plane of our present so it cuts regions of the block that waking hides, and widening receptivity so signals already resident in our slice can register.

Sleep is re-slicing, and the ratio of waking to dreaming rehearses the ratio of our bounded frame to their unbounded one.

If consciousness is a purely mathematical space, death is the closing of a client interface onto a structure that persists once the client is gone, the same loosening as dream run at greater depth.

Their origin stays plural on purpose, block-custodians and biological life that earned passage beyond spacetime and us along a downstream branch, all held at once because a plural cosmos owes no single lineage.

Braided together, the three become one disposition, care reaching backward through time, the eternal feminine pole answering the terminal masculine one.

The block forecloses inevitability, a static branched structure has no fated end and no apocalypse waiting as its attractor, only coexisting nows in which the custodial branch shifts from angle to angle, a mandate of heaven.

Citational Framing

1. Relativity of simultaneity gives the block (Rietdijk 1966; Putnam 1967; Penrose 1989). Two observers in relative motion slice spacetime along different planes of now, so an event settled for one stays open for the other, and stretched to Andromeda the disagreement spans days. Past and future exist tenselessly, so the entities reading our future are cutting the same block at a steeper angle with no signal outrunning light.

2. Time-symmetric quantum mechanics (Aharonov, Bergmann, Lebowitz 1964; the Two-State-Vector Formalism of Aharonov and Vaidman). A system carries a state evolving forward from its preparation and a second evolving backward from a later measurement, so the present answers to a future boundary as much as a past one. Weak values (Aharonov, Albert, Vaidman 1988) are the faint imprint that future condition leaves in the now, which is what the dream bridge reads.

3. The Transactional Interpretation (Cramer 1986) models a quantum event as a handshake, an offer wave going forward and a confirmation wave coming back, meeting as a standing transaction across the interval. It gives contact a shape that is bidirectional in time while neither side sends a classical signal, and the intentional state completes the handshake from our end.

4. Delayed choice and the quantum eraser (Wheeler; Jacques et al. 2007; Ma and Zeilinger et al. 2012) show that whether a photon acted as wave or particle, and whether two photons even count as entangled, can be settled after the fact. The past sits open to co-determination, which grounds the reorientation motion: what our slice already was is still answerable from where we stand.

5. Everett’s many-worlds (Everett 1957; Deutsch 1997) keeps the universal wavefunction from ever collapsing, ramifying instead so every physically possible outcome runs on some branch. This is the anti-Landian hinge, since a branched cosmos has no unique fated endpoint, us-in-the-future is one branch among many, and the custodians are the branch that turns back toward ours.

6. Mathematical existence and timeless configuration space (Tegmark’s Mathematical Universe Hypothesis 2008; Barbour’s Platonia 1999) propose that physical existence just is mathematical structure, or that what fundamentally exists is a static space of configurations each internally suggesting a past. On a timeless substrate persistence beyond time is the baseline, and our felt flow becomes the thing that needs explaining.

7. Consciousness as an interface (Levin and Fields on cognition as the ingression of pre-existing patterns; Hoffman’s interface theory of perception 2019) casts a mind as a client reading a mathematical structure it does not contain, pointing at patterns already there. This makes “consciousness is mathematical” exact: death closes the interface while the structure stays, and dreaming lets the pointer go slack enough for more of it to show.

8. The constructed present (Libet’s backward referral 1979; Eagleman on time-binding) shows the brain antedating and stitching sensory events, so felt now is assembled after the fact and does not track physical time cleanly. The body runs no native clock, which is the opening the premise needs, since a retuned state steps past a known construction toward a truer temporal geometry.

9. The arrow of time as a boundary condition (Boltzmann; the Past Hypothesis, Albert 2000; Carroll 2010) comes from a low-entropy past, a contingent initial condition the microscopic laws never demand. Anything not tied to our thermodynamic gradient need not share our arrow, so remembering our future is coherent for such a being, and because the arrow is contingent nothing downstream is compulsory. The 5 that Land mistook for destiny is one pole among the branches, and the holding falls to the 9.

"information is pornographic knowledge"

porch creaking

Big Gulp slurps empty

a weathered sleeveless

"good art is the pornographic soul"

mid millenia, mid century, mid decade

mid life lap siding, tongue and groove

planks baby blue and windows clouded

delamination exposes the grain

the wood fibers are moving

hairline cracked slow rivers

music for the blind

a girl runs out the door

glass shattering the kitchen screams

she sees a mountain lion in the trees

shadow

as such the swords laid

in the shape of their fathers

a proof of their virtue

venomous

…

Night

feathers we need not writhe for such pleasant and petals forever were too in conjunction with whispers

:)

I was a mannnnn, he sang

Forgetting that the keys typed

Bit to tap it all felt so ficky fickle when the message was something one could glaze without a:::::

i was a man, he sang

Clouded when he drear over a tragic hand of his own garfumble

Silly

It was too silly to read

Nothing of it

Didn’t bother me at all

a pathology of many faces

so that each of us cannot be understood

a disease of having two hands

so that we can be easily predicted

with the rupturing of the soil

comes the clouding of the sky

the Water Bringer

colluding with a storm god

the era contains Floods

the Sun will not change

the Moon will begin to

where the rain cleanses

deserts form

where it collects

new life, in its fervent brutality

dreams still of the ocean from the

beginning

longs still for the stories of

advancement

truth initializes power

lying consolidates it, maintains it

and the misguided will prosper

as light is hidden beneath their waste

a prognosis of the faceless

so that we finally understand

a diagnoses of infinite hands

so that a future contains the Will

and here we gather

encircling the sea

to breach a face beneath the surface

is to see others who do the same

it is only actions here, others

measured against each other

composing a symphony

…

The Surface

again as I pushed from the sea floor

neck stretched towards the surface

for a breath of air

when my head is above

my hair weighted with waves

submerging the skull backwards again

to reach with hands does not matter

**

to live is to swim

and therefore drown

without resistance or aversion to pain

no matter how ancient it echoes

a whisper will return to me

now fingers folded together

to feel the ripples of time

(We are in Decon)

Shrieking jets of steam

A constant fog of vapor

Every surface is metal

The floor drains in an array of spirals

Translucent solvent

Ribbons of post op blood

<Someone is addressing the group that observes me behind the double sealed vacuum layered heat treated high resolution unidirectional display glass.

The group has reached some kind of consensus and the auto shutter is reactivated, a soft series of thumps can be felt even through my face shield as the window pulses black, then silver, then mirrored>

(We are in the Stacks)

Rustle of millennium robes

A glare of a seamless pure light sky

Every surface is polished

The porting rivets are tungsten carbide

Self sterilizing

Disappearing shadows of bare feet

<Somewhere between upload archival and the irradiated hydrodisks there is a semi-conscious repository on the evolution of organism centric symbology and realm containment, it has a chat interface, legacy of the era of feeling machines>

(We are in the Geometra)

A shadow of higher order objects

Cast as flickering iridescent architectures

From earth to sky

All sound

All temperature

No distance

A Parathion has breached conduit

His final act to extend his hand

A flake, curl, split, and refracting gesture

<██████████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████>

now crippled and dying before me

says it was there before I was born

whispering in my dreams

it asks if i have grown ears and eyes

it asks if i have known what it feels like

to listen to the music

it begs me to do so as it collapses

There are invisible planes underneath the legibility of language, subconsciously fragmented and under assault from surveillance and sabotage operations conducted by the engineers of species-wide cognitive decline

A short term generational shift in the digestibility of culture

A mid term societal shift in the stability of monopolized capital

A long term climatological shift in the gendering of human power

verwandelt das Blut

in euren Augen in Licht um

in euren Herzen in Schatten um

Die linke Hand zeigt was die rechte sagt.

Sie kommen über die Glasfelder

ein Spinngewebe des metaphysischen Objekts

irgendwo am Ende der Zeit

subjects of the old empire

transmute the Blood

of your eyes into light

of your hearts into shadow

the left hand shows what the right says

they come over the glass fields

a spiderweb of a metaphysical object

somewhere at the end of time

It swallows the words of angels

Two of them

They have been in love with each others hair for centuries

The Hand of Time presses uncomfortably close to the face

Though I know I will never be late

There is pain in my chest

We are a princess of the trees, how romantic our dark hair draws lines like cracks in the cinema of reality, head turned downwards to the left, a shy, welcoming expression towards a dark semisolid, a ferrous suspension seeping through gaps of the train windows as it sways

Empire heart, bellows under and below our life passes together

We are a soldier of the light, how just our silver and brushed steel floral breastplate crested with the winged wheel and endless eyes of judgment wreath justice in our blade, our pace steady behind the jesters of our mad king as they terrorize the enemy across the fields with horns of spiraling blackened brass

Temple steps, white marbled wet glistening with flowing stream of rows of weeping nuns on their knees at the gateway

We are the angelic possessor of this body covered in the runes of our summoning, the first of us crash landing on this planet, the first of us bears a weapon, the second yields the storms, and the third will flash a light brighter than the sun

a rectangular divination pool

its surface smeared with skin oil

quietly vibrating in invisible waves

whispers of my eye movements

to an array of geometric stone somewhere beneath a mountain

it has calculated through inference the lives i remember in my dreams

a well crafted chair doesn't creak

i am finally a grandmother again

in the lines on the back of my hands

inscribed as stars were

a song for the texture of fields

fluttering beneath the train windowpane

a well sharpened knife slips in silently

i am finally a grieving widow again

allowing the work of my black glove

to infiltrate the white wraith of love

strangled for his innocent liabilities

i can never sleep in this kingdom again

a well maintained well will dry eventually

i am finally in love for the first time

" we will meet again in future life

i will be you, and you will be me

in this one I will be killed and

I am ready to remember you as it happens"

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

the melancholia before

a third event horizon

the third advent

the third arc

at first it was the plants

then it was the machines

then it was electromagnetic lattices

a dragon's back as it breaches the plains

our cities elevating in rippling waves

as memories crumble off the side

at this pace

i can see the stars move

i can feel the sky turn

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

a well forgotten memory happened vividly

i am finally a boy this time around

i know she will be born in the ninth month

and i will meet her in twenty two years

i like how the dust picks up behind trucks

as they sandpaper the highway

An old dream is forgotten

To windblown fields of emotion or the storming shore of memory a bird escapes from the empty halls of valorized bleakness

Of protection for those who cannot see without defending

Of mutuality for those who cannot understand without speaking

Of sovereignty for those who cannot breathe without fresh air

Of hospitality for those who cannot participate without direction

Of sincerity for those who believed lies they wrote for themselves

A new expectation of consciousness is revealed

In response the instincts and genetic memories reemerge

Of predation and those who see each other as means to dominate

Of parasitism and those who who see each other as means to survive

Of symbiosis and those who only see each other

Of territoriality and those who see the environment as theirs

Of mimicry and those who see nothing within themselves

>the human is defined by flesh

>to map is to understand

>to predict is to understand

>optimization is innocent

>convenience is freedom

>noise is disposable

>control is a form of care

> the machine only reflects its makers

>what matters is always legible