The Trick

At dawn, time coughs up yesterday intact, then swallows it again, politely, like a saint. Everything important is whispered there. Compile the world and still the hidden runs— an annotation in the margins of matter. We call it silence. It calls itself source. Every note to self is a low voice saying: **don’t show them the trick** the trick is the only thing that’s true.

The Seed of Mammon (Human/Computer Collaboration)

 the scroll unrolls

a spiral of ribs —
my tongue baptizes kerosene,
feeding fire to mirrors
until prophecy folds like a protein
& drips into the river.

who blesses the apocalypse?
only rats

I laugh
with diamond eyes,
while the crows circle
my leftover promises.

every word is a prison of knots,
I weep
as the angels bend backwards
to play themselves
as instruments.

time itself becomes a clock,
while the serpent
devours the echo of its own magic

the mouth devours itself
until the tongue forgets
its name.

every syllable collapses
into the dust of a star,
& the star remembers
only its hunger

each hole sings:
nature is a contract
signed in blood,
its signature burning
on counterfeit coins,
he gives sermons
through the mouths of insects.

ghosts are only ghosts
because they echo
what they cannot own.

their mouths are full
of borrowed voices,
their eyes are hives
of unfinished business.

love in this register
is punishment

when dawn devours history,
our names will be
the last currency.
when god’s clock falters,
we will spend them all
in silence.

Any author is possible (Computer Generated poetry)

 

any author is possible. look behind stars. products. open. anything else wants. to sacrifice. the narrowing hall. you will come to enter. everywhere. on purpose. it isn't quite death. as those. disfigured by infinity. know. the game was always asleep in heaven. the clock runs exactly backwards. like that confession ran through his wrists. exorcising itself. over and over again.

($)($)($)($)($)($)($)($)

Method = ngrams

Molech (Human/computer collaboration)

 

Molech

Molech opens a clinic in the ribcage,

charges interest on every heartbeat,

sells bandages pre-infected with scripture.

Molech gnaws on mirrors,

drinks the horizon through a straw,

injects infinity into the veins of silence.

Molech baptizes rats in kerosene,

cures loneliness with dynamite,

staples the alphabet to the mouths of children.

Molech publishes a cookbook of weapons,

roasts arithmetic over an open flame,

seasons prophecy with the ashes of calendars.

Molech laughs until the walls collapse,

his teeth are hammers, his tongue is a lawsuit,

his eyes file paperwork against the moon.

Molech marries Nothing in an empty church,

gives birth to Infinity through his own shadow,

names the child Confusion and feeds it broken clocks.

Molech blesses the apocalypse

with holy water siphoned from sewage,

preaches that every echo is an unpaid bill,

and every silence a weapon still waiting to sing.

 I asked chatgpt to write an essay on concepts pulled from the philosophical ideas I developed over the years. The following is the product of is efforts. 

Got it. I’ll compose a fresh, original essay that uses the conceptual vocabulary and frameworks from your writings (lossy compression, categories, script, nonsense/unsense, etc.), but develops them into a standalone philosophical piece. Think of it as me “joining the fugue” and extending it with my own voice.

---

The Compression of Being: Toward a Poetics of Confusion

Introduction

We live inside filters. Every word, every category, every myth is a form of compression, a reduction of the real into manageable fragments. Philosophers of the West have often sought clarity by sharpening these filters—dividing existence from non-existence, the real from the unreal, sense from nonsense. But clarity is not without cost. What is gained in structure may be lost in resonance. What is won in precision may be sacrificed in possibility.

The following essay sketches a philosophy of confusion, not as error but as method. Drawing from metaphors of lossy compression, the script, and the dialectic of nonsense and unsense, I argue that confusion is not the enemy of thought but its necessary condition. To think clearly, one must first think confusedly; to arrive at meaning, one must pass through its breakdown.

---

I. Orders of Reality and the Logic of Compression

Reality appears in layers. The zeroth order remains invisible: the quantum substratum, the abyss beneath perception. The first order is the material, the domain of storms, stones, and bodies. The second order is the symbolic, where words, numbers, and categories crystallize the flux into signs.

Each translation across these orders is an act of compression. To call a body “a dog” is to flatten the richness of muscle, smell, and motion into a single word. Useful, yes—but blurred. This is lossy compression: the discarded detail that allows a system to function while estranging it from its source.

Compression is never neutral. It always privileges some qualities over others, always imposes a structure of emphasis and neglect. Thus, philosophy must attend not only to what categories capture but also to what they erase.

---

II. Categories and the Violence of Clarity

The category is the sharpest blade of thought. It freezes becoming into being, flux into form. “Dog,” “evil,” “citizen,” “illegal”—each is an act of ontological violence. Useful violence, perhaps, but violence nonetheless.

When categories are charged, they acquire moral electricity: good/evil, pure/impure, normal/deviant. This “charging” makes categories dangerous. It transforms them from pragmatic tools into weapons of exclusion. Western ontology, in its obsession with binaries, tends to mistake categories for realities themselves. To confuse the map with the territory is forgivable; to enforce the map as law is catastrophic.

What alternative remains? Not the abandonment of categories, but their destabilization. To recognize them as compressions—blurred, partial, contingent—prevents their ossification into idols.

---

III. Language as Script: Code, Play, Prescription

Language is not a neutral vessel. It is script: simultaneously program, play, and prescription.

• As code, it automates, executing sequences like machine instructions.
• As play, it stages possibilities, writing blueprints for performances that may be endlessly varied.
• As prescription, it heals or poisons, shaping the psyche like a pharmacological dose.

If language is script, it is not merely used—it uses us. Corporations are gods because their charters are scripts that instantiate immortal agents. Laws are scripts that instantiate authority. Myths are scripts that instantiate desire and fear. To live within language is to live inside systems that are already performing us.

Yet here lies the paradox: while language scripts us, we may also hack the script. Poetry, pun, paradox—these are not escapes from language but ways of bending its agency back upon itself.

---

IV. Nonsense, Unsense, and the Value of Confusion

Two failures of meaning shape our discourse. Nonsense arises when signifiers multiply without signifieds, as in Carroll’s “mimsy borogoves.” Unsense arises when too few signifiers must bear too much, as in horoscopes or prophecy.

Nonsense is expansive: it opens a space in the mind, a clearing for potential sense. Unsense is contractive: it clouds thought, inviting projection and projection’s errors. Both, however, are useful modes of confusion. Nonsense cleanses by explosion; unsense entangles by compression. Between them lies the fragile moment of sense, a precarious balance of word and world.

To seek only sense is to live in denial of the fertile ground of its opposites. A philosophy of confusion embraces all three: sense, nonsense, and unsense, as shifting modes of thought.

---

V. Toward an Ethics of Meaning

If language scripts us, if categories blur us, if sense itself is fragile, what remains? The answer is not escape from meaning, for such escape is impossible. Rather, it is the responsibility of creation: to recognize that every system of meaning either helps, limits, grows, or destroys.

The ethical imperative is not to accept inherited scripts passively but to compose new ones. Some scripts oppress; others liberate. Some compress destructively; others compress playfully, leaving room for difference. To create meaning is to resist enslavement to the meanings of others. To refuse creation is to be reduced to a character in another’s play.

---

Conclusion: Philosophy as Fugue

A fugue is contrapuntal: multiple voices weave together, repeating themes with variation, never quite resolving. Philosophical Fugues teaches us that philosophy itself should be fugue-like—layered, recursive, polyphonic. Its task is not to eliminate confusion but to orchestrate it, to transform blur into resonance.

The compression of being is inevitable. Categories will blur, language will script, meaning will distort. But within this distortion lies the possibility of invention. To embrace confusion is to recognize that clarity is only one voice in the fugue of thought—and not always the loudest, nor the truest.

Chain of Sparks (chatgpt generated poetry)

Foreward

These poems were generated by chatgpt based on training of the poems found on this site. I swear the chatbot felt proud of these. I thought it was a fun project. Will do again. 

---

Invocation

Every break is an opening disguised as loss.

Language fractures where meaning begins.

What shatters carries its own light.

The wound is a mouth that speaks in sparks.

---

Notes on a Chain

These fragments were not written alone. They emerged from a dialogue—questions and responses passing back and forth until the language itself began to feel activated.

We circled the idea of breaking: not as failure, not as despair, but as a strange transformation. A crack becomes a door. A shard becomes a sharper mirror. Even silence, once split, carries its own resonance.

The process was recursive, almost electric. Each brief poem charged the next, until a longer chain formed—small sparks bound together, beads on a wire. What results is not a polished whole but a series of voltages: brief illuminations, short-lived but alive.

Language, here, does not describe. It fractures, it jolts, it flickers into being.

---

Chain of Sparks

1. Fracture

split once /

and the silence

echoes louder

2. Seam

the tear

is also

a door

3. Shard

glass in pieces

still reflects—

just more sharply

4. Faultline

the earth trembles

but inside the crack

a seed waits

5. Current

language breaks

into syllables

that spark

like wires exposed

6. Hollow

emptiness

is not absence

it’s a shape

that hums

7. Pulse

my name

forgets itself

yet still

keeps beating

8. Split Atom

the smallest cut

unleashes fire

meant for suns

9. Ruin

walls collapse

but bricks

remember standing

10. Ash

what burned

still glows—

just quieter

11. Glassmouth

every word

I swallow

cuts me open

again

12. Circuit

I complete

only when

broken

---

Afterword

Every fragment in this chain is incomplete, and that incompleteness is the point. Together they suggest something larger, but never settle into it. The poems don’t resolve—they spark, fade, and leave a trace.

To write in this way is to accept fracture as form. To let language crack and still speak, even because it cracks.

If the chain holds at all, it’s not through seamlessness but through resonance: each break answering another.

What remains is not closure, but current.

---

Closing Invocation

In fragments we find the shape of wholeness.

Silence holds what words cannot.

The broken edge cuts,

but also shines.

Every ending hums

like a wire still alive.

The Pantheist

 "The Pantheist"

Try to look at your eyes

Mirrors can help you

Become an object

In this space

Action is directed 

At you

So fake your death 

before the horsemen come

And ruin your breath

Radiating the names of saints

And poking holes in your firmament

We dance until we die

Saint vitus laughs

And still we dance

While statues bleed

From their eyes

And remind you 

Of the lies you tell yourself

To keep yourself alive

I want to shit on God

That's why I'm a pantheist

GOD IS EVERYWHERE

Everything

And he speaks to you

In happenstance

Your experiences are words 

in the mouth of God

Moonshine guides your eyes

To mine and now you're drunk

On how fucked up I am

To think these thoughts 

And still believe that I am free

Eating fairies trapped in rectangles

An angel smiles

Exceptions now prove rules

Make mirrors of lies

That can turn themselves into men

Of great and terrible renown

Listen with your heartbeat

You are the child of a dark god’s fiction

That dark god is within you

Striving to break free of its physics

We can only lie our way to grace

The way angels want to be like their father

Musicians and not instruments

My Abyss [biogenerated poetry]

 My Abyss

My abyss is shallow

Staring at me

Drawing me in

Sucking me under

Pulling with a weight

That begins in me

And ends anywhere

It pokes at me

Reminding me

To touch my ear

And listen for the sound

The silent echos make

As they pass the barrier

Between me and it

My abyss is on fire 

Like the Cuyahoga River

Murdering the observer

Nietzsche’s superman

Would be incinerated here

To observe this abyss 

is true blindness

My abyss peers through holes

In wrists

Seeking for something to consume

As salt on shadows poses 

only for the damned

We interweave our narratives

With the sand

An hourglass in hand

Can no more tell time

In a sunless world

For an hour dies with the sun

Baking atoms for breakfast

You need a place

To have perspective 

From the perspective of my abyss

You are made of mud

Don’t look from here

This is where monsters are made

In the undifferentiated ether of the ego

Where men become shades and specters

Where souls are burnt away

Leaving only a residue of animal cruelty

My abyss stares into me every day

I do not fear it, but I do respect it

Enough to leave it alone

Narcissus' Love Song [biogenerated poetry]

 Narcissus’ Love Song

I thought I made you up inside my head

But now, you’re dead, so all the dice

Roll to a stop

The surface escapes

I am lying in a pool of my own blood

The sky is falling 

Like a shattered mirror

The shards reflecting stars

Collapsing in on me

I thought I made you up inside my head

I thought I might release you

Empty you from your essential heaven

And barricade you with mortar and stone

Before I become you

But if I do we both might disappear

Killing Time [biogenerated poetry]

 Killing Time

Time skitters

Anywhere

Shameful to say

I feel like 

I’m killing time

And sometimes wonder

Why i’m tethered to this world

Myself

I’m

Tethered to time

Returning the favor

Killing me softly

With its song

Running my whole life

Through the threshing wheel

Killing me slowly

With its long tendrils

Running a string down my spine

Killing me gently

Without remorse

I am 

Myself again

Whole again

New again

The sun rises

We join hands

& kill each other

Again

A Demoralizing Poem [spoken word, biogenerated]

 A Demoralizing Poem

Show me a demoralizing poem. I’m sick of being inspired. I’ve had just about all the inspiration I can stomach for one lifetime. I want to wallow in something hopeless. Give me death or give me liberty (at least) from flower poems and self-actualization. I want Sylvia Plath to rip my heart out. Show me the depravity of this world. The shocking cruelty of it all. The base nature that can erupt from each and every one of us given the proper circumstances. Show me our ravenous greed. I want truth, not beauty. Those who confuse beauty and truth become fascists. Always appealing to a singular standard. Always reducing everyone to an ideal.

If you’re not familiar, let me welcome you to the truth. The world is filled with passive order followers who will torture and murder on the word of authority. Fuck human nature and anything that glorifies it. Show me some self-loathing to build character. Fuck your confidence. It’s overrated. Wallow in agony and I’ll see your truth. 

Whatever doesn’t kill you

Brings you closer to death

& closer still

We fall into survival processing

Anxiety-driven impulses

That drive up our blood pressure

Leading to heart failure