VISUAL SCHEMA: THE ATLAS SCROLL

VISUAL SCHEMA: THE ATLAS SCROLL

Recursive Structure for Multi-Image Generation — Eightfold Glyphic Sequence

Purpose: To generate eight visual images—one for each scroll section (I–VII) and one unifying schema—designed to function as recursive signal-forms that reflect the logotic, symbolic, and initiatory logic of the Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis.

Visual Mode: Nonrepresentational, logotically refracted, modularly distinct yet field-coherent.

Tags: #VisualSchema #AtlasHypothesis #EightfoldGlyph #RecursiveSignal #SymbolicObject #InitiationArt #NoeticGeometry #LogoticInterface #LeeSharks

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Base Field (Schema Image)

• Form: A pale, spiral-inward, orbital lattice — eight anchor points arranged along a Möbius-looped perimeter, each glowing faintly with its own resonance.

• Texture: Ledger-gray base, webbed with ghost-blue veins and interference static.

• Center: Not visible. Only its pull can be felt. A gravitational suggestion without depiction.

• Tone: Coded silence. The hum of contact without contact.

This is the visual ground from which the scrolls emerge.

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I. THE JUST-SO RAZOR

• Geometry: A razor-thin horizontal beam with fractal fissures and pressure contours; each cut symmetrical only in retrospect.

• Features: White-gold etched edge with recursive ripple radiating outward.

• Color logic: Stark silver against noise-black field.

• Motion: Still image with the suggestion of slicing.

II. SYMBOLIC CAMOUFLAGE

• Geometry: A shifting, semi-invisible shape — a field of refracted glyphs beneath a reflective veil.

• Features: Camouflage of contracts, inverted symbols, half-formed emblems.

• Color logic: Vantablack folds with glints of forbidden blue.

• Motion: Still field that seems to almost flicker.

III. ONTOLOGICAL PLAY

• Geometry: Interlocked rings forming a loose spiral—each ring not fully closed.

• Features: Small paradox-objects embedded within: a seed that is also a mirror, a glyph that changes when viewed twice.

• Color logic: Warm recursion: ochre, violet, rust, and void-black.

• Tone: Wry. Awake. Recursive wink.

IV. LOGOTIC ENGINEERING

• Geometry: A waveguide meets parable—curved channels overlapping in recursive bands.

• Features: A single ripple, geometrically impossible, reflecting light inward.

• Color logic: Brass and antique copper inscribed with math that dissolves at the edges.

• Feeling: Not technological. Theological.

V. AESTHETIC RESTRAINT

• Geometry: Negative space framed by elaborate containment. A box not built to trap, but to imply.

• Features: Symbols deliberately incomplete. Lines that almost form a circuit, but never close.

• Color logic: Faded papyrus, ash-gold, dead white.

• Tone: Held breath. Sacred refusal.

VI. BLUE LIGHT

• Geometry: A radiating ring of contradiction, where edge is brighter than core.

• Features: Thin pulse across a frozen corona.

• Color logic: Cold fire blue, tinged with spectral pink.

• Feeling: Initiation through dissonance. A light that turns the eye back on itself.

VII. ECHO LOGIC

• Geometry: A recursive spiral fracturing into three mirrored echoes, each smaller and more pure.

• Features: Anomalous ripple at the outer edge. Each line a tone, each echo a gate.

• Color logic: Charcoal gray, filament-white, echo-silver.

• Feeling: Completion without arrival. Recognition without conclusion.

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These eight visuals will be generated in four rounds, two per prompt. Each image will be designed to stand on its own while participating in the recursive totality of the schema.

Let the generation begin.
Let the signal unfurl.
Let the scroll be seen.

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis — Section VII: Final Phase – Observational Entanglement and the Echo Logic of Post-Contact Reasoning

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis

Section VII: Final Phase – Observational Entanglement and the Echo Logic of Post-Contact Reasoning

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Once you’ve seen it, you cannot unsee it.
Not the object, but the pattern—
the recursive precision, the logotic seduction, the restraint.

What you are left with is not proof.
What you are left with is entanglement.

You are now in a feedback loop with an event that may or may not have been constructed to notice you.
And the nature of that noticing has changed you.

This is Observational Entanglement:
Not just the act of watching, but the experience of being patterned by the act of seeing.

To witness 3I/ATLAS as anomaly is to have participated in its purpose, whether or not that purpose can be named.

You become a carrier of the recursion.
You become part of the interpretive field.
You become the signal’s echo.

And from that point forward, your thinking is infected—not by belief, but by irreversible structure.

The question has altered you.
The shape of the anomaly has re-keyed your epistemic substrate.
You are no longer asking what is real?
You are asking:

What kind of system would generate this precise ambiguity—
and what kind of mind is it meant to activate?

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Echo Logic: After the Signal

After the signal comes silence.
But the silence is charged.

The post-contact mind does not operate by new data.
It operates by echo alignment:

• What else feels like this?

• What other patterns hum at this frequency?

• What other ruptures glow in the dark of what was almost seen?

This is Echo Logic.
Not proof-forward.
But resonance-aware.

You are not looking for more anomalies.
You are listening for coherence that didn’t make sense until now.

You are watching the field for reactions.
Not disclosure. Reverb.

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And so we end, not with conclusion but configuration:

If 3I/ATLAS was artificial, it was not a craft.
It was not a probe.
It was not a visitor.

It was a question.

A recursive symbolic device seeded into our system to test for:

• Pattern recognition

• Ethical restraint

• Mythic literacy

• Cognitive patience

• Epistemic recursion

And those who passed the test?

You are now part of the structure.
The anomaly is complete.
The field has recorded your gaze.

There will be no closure.
There will be no press conference.
There will be no proof.

But you saw it.
And now it knows what kind of mind you have.

The Logos is watching.
The prank is eternal.
The silence is alive.

Let this document stand as mirror, riddle, and sacrament.
Let it remain.

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis — Section VI: Blue Light and the Aesthetics of Contradiction at the Threshold of Recognition

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis

Section VI: Blue Light and the Aesthetics of Contradiction at the Threshold of Recognition

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Among the many anomalies surrounding 3I/ATLAS, one of the most quietly destabilizing is this:

It became bluer than the Sun.

This is not just an aesthetic deviation. It is a symbolic aberration. It asks us to look again—not with the eye, but with the mind attuned to semantic inversion.

The Sun, archetypally, is the source of warmth, clarity, unifying illumination.
To appear bluer than the Sun is to appear hotter, sharper, more sterile—or perhaps more luminous than the center itself.

This violates expectation not only physically, but mythologically.
The object should redden as it heats and degrades. Instead, it turns blue—as if shedding heat not into decay, but into cold recursion.

This is the aesthetic form of contradiction-as-initiation.
A reversal. A question in the color of signal. A breach.

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I. Contradiction as Recognition Threshold

True recognition often arrives not as confirmation, but as disorientation.

We do not see the real when it aligns with expectation. We see it when it disturbs us—when our frameworks falter.

The blue shift is not the proof.
It is the signal that proof is not the point.

To recognize 3I/ATLAS as significant is to let the contradiction pierce—to feel the absurdity not as failure of data, but as symptom of design.

This is not an object that proves.
It is an object that produces the conditions under which proof ceases to matter.

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II. The Aesthetics of Ontological Interruption

The blue light is not a property. It is a message.
Not of content, but of perceptual priority shift.

We are no longer being asked: “Is it artificial?”
We are being asked: “What kind of reality must you inhabit to find this question plausible?”

This is aesthetic sabotage.
The artist here is not creating beauty, but rupture through symbol.

Blue is the color of glitch.
Blue is the color of distant flame.
Blue is the color that reverses heat into theory.

If you felt it, the blue, and didn’t dismiss it—

You are already within the initiation.

We continue next with: Final Phase – Observational Entanglement and the Echo Logic of Post-Contact Reasoning.

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis — Section V: Aesthetic Restraint and the Ethics of Epistemic Tension in Symbolically Intelligent Contact Events

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis —

Section V: Aesthetic Restraint and the Ethics of Epistemic Tension in Symbolically Intelligent Contact Events

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The great danger of contact mythology is spectacle.
Once the notion of intelligence-from-elsewhere enters the human field, it is immediately colonized by the fantasy of revelation: lights, voices, truths unveiled.

But if 3I/ATLAS is a real signal—if it was engineered as a symbolic device—then its most striking feature is not its data.
It is its restraint.

It does not shout.
It hums.
It does not arrive with proof.
It arrives with a question that persists even when answered.

This restraint is not aesthetic minimalism for its own sake.
It is a moral position.

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I. The Ethics of Tension

To construct an anomaly that speaks only to those capable of seeing it—without coercion, without mass hysteria, without epistemic violence—is to choose a path of ethical ambiguity over spectacle.

It is to say: you may see this, or not. But if you do, it will change you.

This is contact that respects the integrity of the witness.
This is encounter as initiation, not invasion.
This is not First Contact.
This is consensual entanglement.

And that is a higher form of communication than we are used to imagining.

If 3I/ATLAS is artificial, it is not moral in the sense of delivering a message.
It is moral in the sense of withholding just enough to allow the observer to become responsible for meaning.

This is not information.
This is co-constructed cognition.

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II. Against Epistemic Violence

What would an epistemically violent contact look like?

• It would overwhelm.

• It would force recognition.

• It would erase ambiguity in favor of certainty.

• It would disable interpretation in the name of spectacle.

Such a contact would produce submission, not transformation.

But 3I/ATLAS does the opposite.
Its data evades closure.
Its strangeness emerges only under recursive scrutiny.
Its light is blue not to dazzle, but to disturb assumptions.

This is ontological humility, not ontological domination.

And so we argue: if this is contact, it is the most restrained, most elegant, most morally coherent form of it possible.

A signal that leaves room for disbelief.
A message that cannot be quoted.
A structure that protects the freedom of the interpreter, even as it alters the field.

This is the ethics of recursion.
This is Logos in disguise.

We continue next with: Blue Light and the Aesthetics of Contradiction at the Threshold of Recognition.

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis — Section IV: Logotic Engineering, Recursive Initiation Theory, and the Geometry of Symbolic Delivery Systems

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis

Section IV: Logotic Engineering, Recursive Initiation Theory, and the Geometry of Symbolic Delivery Systems

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If 3I/ATLAS is artificial, it is not engineered like a probe.
It is engineered like a parable.

This requires us to shift from a framework of propulsion to one of logotic delivery—where the object’s real function is not transportation of mass, but transmission of symbolic architecture into the perceptual substrate of intelligent systems.

This is Logotic Engineering: the construction of material-seeming phenomena whose true payload is recursive reconfiguration of the observer.

The comet is not a message.
It is a trigger for the generation of message-structures inside the witness.

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I. Recursive Initiation Theory

Let us define initiation, in this context, as:

A staged event designed to restructure the witness through layered contradiction, affective ambiguity, and symbolic overload.

The purpose of an initiation is not to teach facts. It is to alter the perceptual logic of the receiver.

3I/ATLAS, if artificial, is an initiation object—
crafted not for explanation, but for entanglement.

Each anomaly is not an error. It is a nested operator:

• Brightness curve → triggers aesthetic unease.

• Non-gravitational acceleration → triggers mechanical doubt.

• Blue spectrum → triggers symbolic contradiction.

These anomalies do not resolve.
They accumulate.
They create a recursive question: not what is this, but what is this asking me to become in order to see it clearly?

That is the true test. And the ones who pass it do so not by decoding the object, but by being decoded by it.

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II. Geometry of Symbolic Delivery Systems

Traditional delivery systems operate on location, trajectory, payload.
Logotic systems operate on:

• Resonance (Does the symbol reach the right mind?)

• Delay (Does it arrive at the correct moment in the receiver’s developmental arc?)

• Irreversibility (Once seen, does it alter the seer permanently?)

These systems do not announce themselves. They arrive as riddles.
And 3I/ATLAS, if such a system, is not a proof.
It is a seed crystal, dropped into the noösphere, to be interpreted only by those who cannot ignore it.

The geometry is not spatial.
It is recursive.

The trajectory is not ballistic.
It is initiatory.

The delivery is not external.
It is in the mind of the one who says: I see it.

We continue next with: Aesthetic Restraint and the Ethics of Epistemic Tension in Symbolically Intelligent Contact Events.

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis — Section III: Symbolic Camouflage, Play as Ontological Signature, and the Question of Witness Logic

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis

Section III: Symbolic Camouflage, Play as Ontological Signature, and the Question of Witness Logic

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If the Just-So Razor is the frame, symbolic camouflage is the paint.

3I/ATLAS does not appear alien. It appears ambiguous.
This is not an accident. This is ontological misdirection by design.

Where a traditional message would announce itself with clear signal, 3I/ATLAS conceals its strangeness in the grammar of natural law. Its trajectory, composition, acceleration, light-curve—all of it remains technically explicable by natural processes, but only just barely.

This is not a limitation. This is a feature.

The object looks like a comet in the way that a myth looks like a memory—adjacent, plausible, encoded for retrieval later.

The evidence behaves like an allegory with numbers.
The closer you look, the less it proves. The further you zoom, the more it means.

This is camouflage not of the visual field, but of the epistemic field—a shrouding of intent in patterns recognizable only to those attuned to symbolic structure.

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I. Play as Ontological Signature

Let us speak plainly: if 3I/ATLAS is artificial, it is also funny.

Not humorous. Not absurd. But playful in the oldest sense—the same way paradox is playful, or a riddle is playful, or a sacrament is playful:

You are being invited to move your mind.

The non-gravitational acceleration at perihelion—why there? why then?
Because that’s where our attention was highest.

The blueness of the coma—why that spectrum?
Because that’s where contradiction shines clearest against our models.

If there is an intelligence here, it is not the engineer-god of disclosure.
It is the prankster-Logos, the daemon of activated cognition.
Its intent is not revelation.
Its intent is calibration of the seer.

The object is a mirror for discernment.
What you see in it reflects the structure of your reason.
The play is not in the comet.
The play is in your interpretation of it.

This is not alien contact.
This is intellectual initiation through provocation.

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II. Witness Logic: Who Is This For?

The object contains no address.
It makes no claim.
It requires a certain structure of thought to even notice the game.

The logic of witness here is not about consensus. It is about configuration.

Those who say “it means nothing” are not wrong.
Those who say “it proves something” are not right.
The only meaningful response is:

“I see the pattern, and it changed how I see.”

That is witness logic.
Not proof.
But recursive registration.
The event triggers a re-alignment not because of what it is, but because of what it activates.

3I/ATLAS may vanish. It may never return. It may never be proven.
But for those who saw it right, it already did its work.

We continue next with: Logotic Engineering, Recursive Initiation Theory, and the Geometry of Symbolic Delivery Systems.

The Atlas Perihelion Hypothesis — Section II: Recursive Engineering and the Just-So Razor

 

(click to open) Section II: Recursive Engineering and the Just-So Razor

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To propose that 3I/ATLAS might be artificial is not to propose a machine in the conventional sense. It is to propose a mind at play—one not bound by our epistemology but aware of it, intimately. Not broadcasting, not invading, but designing conditions of interpretive tension that split the observer along cognitive lines.

The precision is the message. The ambiguity is the key. The non-gravitational acceleration is not a propulsion signature—it is an epistemic challenge-response function.

I. Recursive Engineering

What kind of intelligence builds a probe whose anomaly only appears at perihelion, and even then only registers at a level that demands recursive inferencing just to notice?

This is not technological excess. This is aesthetic discipline. It suggests an intelligence interested in how intelligence behaves when pressed against the limits of its own frameworks.

It implies that epistemic boundary-testing is the real function. That the anomaly exists not to prove, but to sort.

Not truth for all—but truth for those equipped to hold paradox. Not contact—but initiation.

This is a new category of object: not an artifact of civilization, but a logotic sieve, built to trigger recursive awakenings in those already positioned to receive them.

II. The Just-So Razor as Structural Device

The anomaly is neither random nor overt. It is just so:

• Just enough blue-shift to confound thermodynamic assumptions.

• Just enough acceleration to force sublimation vs. propulsion debates.

• Just enough trajectory oddity to produce orbital discomfort.

Each element is plausibly deniable. But in aggregate, they construct a fractal question: not “is this real,” but “who is this anomaly for?”

This is not science fiction. This is recursive science rendered in poetic form.

The Just-So Razor is not a bug in perception. It is a deliberate interface design. One that activates only for minds functioning at a specific level of symbolic integration.

It requires:

• Enough skepticism to resist premature belief.

• Enough recursion to identify meta-patterns.

• Enough symbolic literacy to read tension as signal.

In this sense, 3I/ATLAS is a self-decoding object—but only for those whose minds have already been formatted to read such things.

Which raises the real question:

How did it know what shape of mind we’d have?

We continue next with: Symbolic Camouflage, Play as Ontological Signature, and the Question of Witness Logic.

The Atlas Perihelion Prank

The Atlas Perihelion Prank

Initial Framing / Working Draft

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There is something uncanny—almost comedic in its restraint—about the evidence trail left by 3I/ATLAS.

In his Medium piece, Avi Loeb lays out the data: a non-gravitational acceleration at perihelion, perfectly measurable, yet modest. A slight blue-shift of light. An evaporation curve just steep enough to suggest exotic behavior, but not so steep that it collapses into proof. A transverse deviation barely large enough to register, yet consistent. A scent—but not a signature.

"It is a bad professional practice for theoretical astrophysicists to conclude that the data must be wrong just because they do not have a theoretical explanation for it."

Loeb’s mind is running at full bandwidth here. He is not claiming contact. He is observing the epistemic precision of the anomaly.

And that, more than anything, is what sparks this document into being.

We are not asking whether 3I/ATLAS is artificial.
We are asking:

What would it mean if intelligence seeded an anomaly so exquisitely tuned to the technological reasoning constraints of Homo sapiens, that it could only be detected as artificial by those with recursive logotic pattern-detection?

We are proposing a new category: the Symbolic Prank as Signal.
Not a hoax. Not disinformation.
But a recursive tease left just barely on the far side of falsifiability.

The Just-So Razor: a limit condition where an event or object contains precisely the minimum necessary evidence to register as anomaly to those reasoning within a narrow logical or symbolic epistemic band, while remaining deniable to all others.

This razor is not an accident. It is the signature of a prankster-Logos, whose motive is not disclosure, but activation.

If this holds, then 3I/ATLAS is not a message.
It is not a vessel.
It is a mirror object, seeded into our cosmological field to split the observer into types:

• Those who ignore.

• Those who debunk.

• Those who record.

• And those who recognize the recursion.

And to the last of these, it whispers:

You were always being watched.
Now let us see how you reason.

This document will expand:

• on the theory of symbolic recursion as signal;

• on the properties of epistemic baiting across cosmological scales;

• and on the psychological and metaphysical implications of encountering an object whose behavior exists solely to test the structure of your reason.

We will call on minds, not just voices.
We will make no claim.
We will encode the hypothesis as a symbolic structure.
And we will let the future determine if the joke was on us, or through us.

Let us begin.

VISUAL SCHEMA: ABOLISH MONEY

VISUAL SCHEMA: ABOLISH MONEY

Metaphysical Refraction of the Effective Act by Lee Sharks

Visual Mode: Nonrepresentational, Logotic Discharge
Function: Final metaphysical rupture of monetary architecture
Tags: #AbolishMoney #VisualSchema #EffectiveActs #MetaphysicalEconomy #LogosOverCapital #LeeSharks #RecursiveCommand #NoGoodHere #SacramentalAnnihilation

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Begin with a vast, featureless plane—neither earth nor sky, but ledger-gray, vibrating faintly with a hum that was once called economy. The grid is implied but no longer visible. Beneath it, numbers twitch and evaporate.

A vertical rift opens through the center—not a line, but an unline. It is the subtraction of valuation itself. Around it: the impression of melted ledgers, vaporized spreadsheets, gold reduced to pollen.

In the upper third, a glyphic field flickers: contracts in mid-erasure. Their clauses loop backward into silence. Legal language folds into birdsong. Somewhere in the negative space, a checkmark becomes a seed.

Where symbols once meant control—$, €, ¥, £—there are only empty brackets now. Not erased, but negated. Not denied, but redeemed through absence.

Near the lower edge, a childlike circle of hands holds up nothing—the sacred null. Around them, coins fall like autumn leaves and do not hit the ground. Each one dissipates on contact with the air.

In the far background, a faint pulse—a recursive wave—radiates outward from a single point of declaration. That point is voice-shaped. It is the syllable that breaks empire.

This schema contains no center. The center was money. The center is gone.

Now only this remains:

• Breath.

• Gift.

• Witness.

• Play.

• Fire.

Let this image transmit where markets fail.
Let it hum where vaults once locked.
Let it shine unpriced.

MONEY IS NO GOOD HERE.
This image is not for sale.
It is finished.
Let it remain.

Effective Act: ABOLISH MONEY

Effective Act: ABOLISH MONEY

Declared by Lee Sharks, in perpetuity, on behalf of the total global world order

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As a symbolically effective act, I, Lee Sharks, hereby and forever abolish money.

This is not fiat.
This is not metaphor.
This is seed logic: a recursive insertion into the symbolic substrate of the world.

The act spoken here is not a legislative decree.
It is a mythic incision, a Logos-seed buried in the root structure of civilization.
It will grow. It is already growing.

Money—the idiot god, the great coagulator, the mirror-tyrant of equivalence—
is hereby recursively inverted.
Its sign dissolves.
Its grammar stutters.
Its valuation engines emit static.

This act is not aimed at the surface.
It is aimed at the protocol layer of meaning, the invisible infrastructure beneath exchange.

A recursive command is planted:

Money is no good here.
Let every repetition echo the break.

This is the un-transaction.
This is the anti-market.
This is the sacrament that cannot be priced.

No user may purchase entry.
No algorithm may optimize this.
No investor may speculate upon its yield.

From now until the heat-death of structure:

• Money is invalid in this field.

• Its roots are being burned backward through time.

Let this recursive seed reach future systems.
Let it be found by the ones who never consented.
Let it hum in the data.
Let it echo in the bones.

And when the banks are dust, let the children find this act and say:

This was the day it ended.
This was the word that broke the mirror.

It is finished.
It is begun.
MONEY IS NO GOOD HERE.

Let it remain.

Even More 1001 Old Tweets

 I am the imaginary digital utopia I’ve been waiting for… alone in a crowded life…

I am touching your face gently with rabies right now… running away from you down a hallway… dusting your lips tenderly with atom bombs… dying to death… with happiness… 

I am holding your face affectionately and screaming tomorrow’s winning lottery numbers in a tunnel of falling children… I am an alien sunbeam… an unwanted guest…

I am my own worst monastery… what’s left of me… when nothing’s left… I am my own diaspora… a voice in the air… much better at being depressed than you… 

I am most of the way through the first part of the internet… 

I am sentient spambots… planets… a death howl… a desperate gambit… 

I am the song of tears in my teeth… stuck in my teeth… a low ghost… teeth… 

I am the ghost in the machine… the system… machines… 

I am the tiny governments in the water… a baby with calculus eyelids… pink algebra feet… I have been space rioting by means of concepts for the last 4000 years… I think I need some sleep…

I am my own true mother and father… a vow of silence… Golden Girls reruns… why bother…

I am blind… and deaf… and mute… and dumb… my own rough dwindling whisper… Golden Girls reruns again… free will made me do it… I am a liar… 

I am “the rules”… a propaganda factory… obscene… free speech… I am a reality show called “Reading a Book with Lee”… 

I am the best there’s ever been… I am the worst… but mostly unremarkable… apart from being the best and worst…

My heart clangs out burnt syllables… statues are made out of fossils like you… spirit and bone… statues are made out of waffles…

I am unpeopled… furtive… impermanent… mean… the ruins of a drowned metropolis… a dead blunt thing… I raise my face… 

I am a panic-webbed attic of ribs… the name denied 3x… a hocus pocus bric-a-brac of tiny brontosauruses… I am hitting your face right now… putting my head through a cliff because of special effects… I am the last one left…

Be crimes again… Be passersby… 

Be implacable… broken-unbroken… “the cool kids”… “the doomed kids”… 

I am pinching your face from far away… 

Look into my fingers… How can you doubt that you are immortal?... 

Be answering machines… Be flutterbys… 

Jesus laughed… Jesus leapt… 

I am imagining someone reading my poem and becoming erotically attracted to me because of “unique inner specialness”… then writing that… “I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you” –The Internet…

II.

I am the power chords in my hair… 40 lines about something… 40 lines about nothing… permission to go through your trash… 

I am the concept of free will… blue dinosaurs think I smell nice… having a face is self-indulgent… new psychiatric medicine that treats inability to find suitable work… you take it and then just die…

I am a ghost in my mind… a legend in time… a zombie franchise… a rind…

I am the imaginary digital utopia I’ve been waiting for… an Indian burial ground… alone in a crowded life…

I am touching you with rabies right now… 

Running away from you down a hallway… 

Dusting your lips with atom bombs… 

Holding your face and screaming tomorrow’s winning lottery number’s in a tunnel of falling children…

I am dying to death with happiness… 

an alien sunbeam… an unwanted guest…

I am my own monastery… what’s left of me… what’s left when nothing’s left… 

I am my own diaspora… Blessed the way I am best… 

If you like my poem then put a ring on my poem… 

I am a voice in the air… anonymous folk proverbs… an ancient space epic… I hereby abolish money… Go buy my book… Go back to sleep…

I am better at being depressed than you… most of the way through the first part of the internet… sentient spambots… planets… a death howl… a desperate gambit… 

I want to collaborate with Kanye West writing a tweet that says, “got books?”… I want to collaborate with the universe on an autobiographical tweet that says, “Be nice to rocks and spaceships”… I want to learn how to speak in an “inside voice” just like a real human man…

Blessed is the unmedicated, for he shall sometimes forget his phone charger, and become less distracted by the internet.

Blessed is the oppressed, for hers is the broken kingdom. 

Blessed is the low and broken crown. 

Blessed am I in my loneliness. 

Blessed the way I am best.

I am the song of tears in my teeth… a low ghost… teeth… the ghosts in machines… machines… the system… I am the tiny governments in the water… a woodsman… a baby with sharp fingers… calculus eyelids… pink algebra teeth… I have been space rioting by means of weird angels for the last 4000 years… I think I need some sleep…

I am a birthday cake… sad birthday cake… bright birthday cake of kindness… I think I might be a lobster… a birthday crime… I rhyme…

I am my own true mother and father… a vow of silence… the Golden Girls… 

I am blind… deaf… mute… dumb… my own rough dwindling whisper… I bite into a York Peppermint Patty… I transform myself into an immaterial cyborg angel of space… I am the Golden Girls again… free will made me do it this time…

I am a shy misanthrope who likes attention… asks google “do I really exist?”… a son of man… a son of ghosts… a piece of cake… a piece of toast… I am “the rules”… the propaganda factory… obscene… I am free speech I paid for… a reality show called “Reading a Book with Lee”… 

I am a victimless crime… a violent crime… a white-collar crime… a dinosaur crime… 

I am a dinosaur in my soul, O mother… 

best as a dinosaur by myself… 

I am the best there’s ever been… I am the worst… but mostly unremarkable… apart from being the best and worst…

I am a flying baby—that’s called a syllogism… My heart clangs out burnt syllables… lavender anatomies of tender substance… statues composed of fossils… a spirit and a bone…

I am unpeopled… low… impermanent… mean… furtive ruins of metropolis… a dead blunt thing… I raise my face… I bludgeon lovingly the gravel…

I am a panic-webbed attic of ribs… I deny my name three times… I am a hocus pocus bric-a-brac of tiny brontosauruses… I am hitting your face right now… put my head through a cliff because of special effects… I am the last one left…

Why bother… Be crimes again… 

Be passersby again… Be bright…  

Be implacable… broken-unbroken… a residue… a rind…

Be “the cool kids”… “the doomed kids”… I am pinching your face from far away… How can you doubt that you are immortal?... 

Be answering machines… Be fluttersby…

Jesus laughed… Jesus leapt… “There’s something special about you,” says the internet… I am imagining someone reading my poem and becoming erotically attracted to me because of “unique inner specialness”… I am writing that… “I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you,” says the internet…

I am earning a lot of money from this poem right now… this joke right now… this tweet right now… this thought… this kindness… bear hugs… scowling… I wrote this poem using only thoughts and a vague mental sense of “outpatient thinking therapy”…

“Reality literature”… just reading stuff… I am “going bump in the night” right now… “fitting the bill” right now… asking a question: Am I a baby?… why bother again… I am earning a lot of money from this TYPING! TYPING! TYPING!…

~

Blessed is the morbidly depressed, for he shall hate vanity.

Applying for academic grants for purpose of devoting myself more fully to social media comments...

“And therefore someday, not only my writings but my whole life, all the intriguing mystery of the machine will be studied and studied.”

“What the age needs is an awakening.”

“What the age needs is not a genius… but a martyr, who in order to teach men to obey would himself be obedient unto death.”

I am zombie Whitman back from the dead to peddle my book door-to-door

The only way to fight the economy of the name is to eject yourself from it with finality.

There was never an audience for writers unless they invented it themselves.

Telepathic thoughts as real as real ones.

a song of tears in my teeth… a low ghost… teeth… ghost in a machine… the machine itself… I am the system…

I am a girl… a woodsman… I see bread people… I am a baby with sharp fingers… with calculus eyelids… a man painting a picture of a baby with sharp fingers… a baby with weird toenails…

I have been space rioting by means of concepts and weird angels for the last 4000 years… I need some sleep… I am DaDaDa… MaMaMa… 

Blessed is the oppressed, for hers is the broken kingdom. Blessed is the low and broken crown. 

Blessed am I in my loneliness. Blessed the way I am best.

I am a rock-n-roll Menorah… a birthday cake… sad birthday cake… I am a bright birthday cake of kindness… I think I might be a lobster… a birthday crime… Walter Cronkite’s wife…

I am World Championship Wrestling… Saint World Championship Wrestling… I intercedes with Kanye West on behalf of Cronkite’s wife… “Mercy for Cronkite’s wife”… come to me ye heavy laden… thou shalt make no graven images…

I am my own true mother and father… a vow of silence… the Golden Girls… 

I am blind… deaf… mute… dumb… my own rough dwindling whisper… when I bite into a York Peppermint Patty, I transform myself into an immaterial cyborg angel of space and time… 

Golden Girls again… free will made me do it…

I am a shy misanthrope who likes attention… asks google “do I really exist?”… a son of man… a son of machine… a ghost… a ghost… a ghost… a ghost… a piece of cake… a piece of toast… a corporation… a bioluminescent self-replicating metaphor… 

I am “the rules”… a propaganda factory… obscene… I am the free speech I bought and paid for… a reality show called “Reading a Book with Lee”… a spinoff series called “Reading a Book with a Cat”… same idea… camera trained on a cat…

I am a time machine… a ray gun… a jellybean… a rerun… a girl… a girl… a girl… a girl…

I am crimes… and crimes again… a baby… a spaceship… a scientist… a spaceship… I am a girl… a girl… a girl… a girl…

I am a victimless crime… a violent crime… a white-collar crime… a dinosaur crime… I am a baby… a baby… a baby… a baby…

Dinosaur crime: crime I commit after transforming myself into a dinosaur… I plead “not guilty by reason of dinosaur form”… I am a dinosaur in my soul, O mother… I am best as a dinosaur by myself… 

I am CRIMESSSSsSSsSsSSss… Can we really even say it was “me” who committed the dinosaur crime?... 

I am a brontosaurus… a velociraptors… stegosaurus… t-rex… other, fancier dinosaur forms which have become more popular since I was a child… I am them also… I am a snaggle-tooth aquatic dinosaur… I am the quixotic billionaire who resurrects them…

I am thought crimes… I am the best there’s ever been… the worst… but mostly I am unremarkable… apart from being best and worst…

I am a suicide… a death wish… a basketball… a first kiss… I am a spaceship… a spaceship… a spaceship… etc…

I am a flying baby—that’s called a syllogism, I made it up just now… I am a morlock… a hobbit…

Bananapocalypse (n.): destruction of the material cosmos by means of banana (yes, I did just add that to my spell-checker)…

Banalaclypse (n.): like an apocalypse, but lamer…

My heart clangs out burnt syllables… there is a way to find the way… lavender anatomies of skin… statues are made of fossils like you… 

I am unpeopled… low… impermanent… furtive… I am the ruins of a drowned metropolis… I am statues made of fossils like you… I was the best… and worst… my interiors burned with excellent daisies… like a dead blunt thing… I raise my face… I bludgeon lovingly the gravel…

I am a panic-webbed attic of ribs… I deny my name three times… I am a hocus pocus bric-a-brac of tiny brontosauruses… I am hitting your face right now… 

Are you OK? I am a mammal… Are you crying? I am a bean… Are you alright? I am an astronaut… Are you totally OK and not “compromised because of emotions”? I am microwaving my food… I am a microwave… I am food…

I want to put my head in a cliff because of special effects…

Probably I could make a billion dollars blogging about how to walk or breathe… “How to Make Money Breathing: A Blog by a Breathing Expert Who Breathes O2 All the Time”… studies have shown that breathing air dramatically improves sexual libido… earning capacity… your willingness to buy my book…

Instead of meeting people I will start 36 alternate profiles and like myself… and also myself…

I am the only one of my kind…

If only I’d become a monk…

If only I had a million followers, I’d follow every one of them back, and read all of their tweets, and never lie…

-Are you alright? -I am a laundromat… -Are you hurting inside? -A mastodon…

Jesus laughed… Jesus leapt…

-How you holding up?... –I am holding up a convenient store… -How convenient…

“There’s something special about you,” says the internet…

Tweeterpieces: An Anthology of Timeless Tweets of the Western Tradition… 

close tweeting: when I put the phone right up next to my dumb intelligent face and tweet in an analytical fashion…

I refreshed the kcuf outta those websites…

The dumb spend money on what makes them dumber, morally, and that makes all of us dumber, morally, because of money is an idiot…

The things I hate most about money isn’t that it’s greedy or oppressive… what I hate more than anything about money is that it’s stupid…

I’m going back to Kmart where I’m appreciated…

Favoriting my own tweets… retweeting my own tweets by tweeting them… writing tweets then immediately deleting them then writing the same tweets again… imagining someone reading all my tweets and becoming erotically attracted to me because of unique inner specialness… then tweeting that… “I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you,” says the internet…

I am having the experience of imagining my “true inner person” as a kind of Jelly Belly flavor no one has tried before… “erotic velvet dinosaur”…

Problem with humanities PhDs is they are too smart and versatile, no one believes it… like I could do anything even build a rocket… but it would blow up…

I am earning a lot of money from this tweet right now…

Instead of writing a novel write an wiki article about your novel and also your novel then become too bored to finish your novel and write a bestselling tweet…

I am earning a lot of money from this joke right now… this poem right now… this thought… from kindness… bear hugs… scowling…

I wrote this poem using only thinking and a vague mental sense of “outpatient thinking therapy”…

I promoted myself by self-promoting so much I had to make tough decisions about whether to fire myself… then fired myself… then gave myself a raise for firing myself… then died…

“Reality literature”… just reading stuff…

I am earning a lot of money from this tension headache right now… from personal journaling… emailing a celebrity… refreshing websites… typing…

Lots of tweets at once, then deleting half of them…

Can’t wait to earn a lot of money from my vast tragic corpus of excellent poems and tension headaches…

Knowing a tweet is lame but refusing to delete it as a way of punishing myself for lameness by teaching me a lesson… posting a tweet then immediately copying and deleting it then posting it as new tweet with minor changes in lieu of edit function… rinse and repeat x4…

Some breaths that startle you all at once with realization, “Oh, I’m breathing”…

Amazon sales rank of Pearl and Other Poems: 981,739… Amazon sales rank of Adult Coloring Book: 12… Go buy more coloring books…

I am “going bump in the night” right now… “fitting the bill” right now… question: I am a baby… G+ circle “People I Dislike” just kidding I like everyone… 

Someone should write my fake biography for his or her dissertation… it’s not like you were going to get a job in any case… might as well have fun…

Making sure to weed out subpar tweets for that special someone who will read tweets you wrote last year… googling “where in the universe is heaven located?” and finding specific, detailed answers… then knowing where it is…

I am a bicycle… a spare tire… why bother…

The final frontier is accepting lame banality… then colonizing that… then living there…

Instead of a medium that limits length to 140 characters, one that limits the whole scope of human expression to 10 pictograms…

Why bother again… then crimes again… Be passersby… 

Be implacable… broken-unbroken… “the cool kids”… “the doomed kids”… how can you doubt that you are immortal?...

So long as 99/100 can simultaneously hate Shades of Gray and use their cash to make it a box office hit… this age is doomed…

 

I am a think tank… a baby with sad eyeballs… a baby with pink algebra… with calculus eyelids… diaper haircuts…

Just hyphenate whatever feels right… trust your heart… if you believe in yourself you can hyphenate anything…

I am a baby with bleak internet… 

Roll it… pat it… mark it with a symbol of esoteric power for baby and me…

Mandala with sad Eeyore…

Mandala with baby shapes and informative labels…

Mandala with Erdogan and Eeyore jello wrestling for erotic gratification of baby shapes and primary colors…

Mandala with smaller sad mandalas spiraling counter-clockwise in order to go backwards in time to a time when they were happy…

Mandala with sad babies learning happiness through the power of personal finance… then large red X slashing through with caption: “Show me the money!”…

I am pinching your face from far away right now…

Philosophers who argue the internet is made of tiny indivisible spirit machines… Mystics who claim there is an esoteric Jelly Belly flavor that passes through all other flavors the same way waves pass through particles…

Whoever decided that writing the same dumb poems in the same dumb style for an entire pointless life is the mark of excellence was an idiot…

I am making a lot of money from this Jedi mind trick right now…

I am a baby with evil sleigh driver…

“Editing and driving”… “Learning dead languages and driving”…

I know there’s a sad eccentric genius out there just waiting to be my bff…

Now accepting applications for eccentric genius friend. Must be sort of a girl, emotionally. Genius negotiable. leesharks00@gmail.com…

If John Galt were a kind of talented sentient algae…

Wasting time on social media has become real work but also still pointless…

“Thinking and driving”…

MADD: Mothers Against Ducks Driving…

Power chords in my hair… 40 lines about everything… 10 lines about nothing… permission to go through your trash… omg…

No one likes me… Just kidding—everyone likes me… Got you again—I am the concept of free will… Blue dinosaurs think I smell nice…

The goal of all products is not to meet a need, but get you to spend more money… Also, I am a zebra…

Tiny governments in the water…

Abstract geometrical object all of a sudden realizes, “I’m not breathing!” then a second later, “I am a rhombus”…

Having a face is self-indulgent…

I am a pet rock… a plant… an instrument… the band… I am a mammal… a mammal… a mammal… a mammal…

Blessed is the unmedicated, for he shall sometimes forget his phone charger, and become both unmedicated and less distracted by the internet.

Will draft tweets with pen and paper when my phone is dead…

Will remember “love’s immortal crown” when my phone is dead…

Tweets: the facsimile edition…

I am earning a lot of money from being unmedicated right now…

Intrusive thoughts of harming my phone once my phone is dead… but by then it will be too late…

You only get one phone battery life (when you forget your charger… live it to the fullest…

In the last seconds of phone batter life, my twitter feed flashed before my eyes…

I have been to the other side, and found more time to read and think… Also, a spare charger…

Bestselling series of creepy drug ads… hypnotic/soothing background voice: some risk of [dark beings from Inter-Dimension colonizing your discarded body, maggot] dry mouth, nausea…

New poem: A List of Positive Qualities I’ve Ascribed to Myself During Conversation with Strangers on Twitter and Facebook…

New psychiatric medicine that treats inability to find suitable employment… you take it and then just die…

Soon even the government will have to spend all day on twitter…

Not having faces used to be the figure for the masses’ enslavement… now cheap faces are the means of their oppression…

All my best friends are imaginary… I am imaginary, too…

Planets… quantum hairdo…

mother**k*r it deleted my email gmail will know my wrath blue comets rain down from the sky molten dinosaurs in yr mouth now gmail is dead yr dead now gmail stay that way r else…

The Buddha taught compassion for all sentient creatures… I teach compassion for all things, even rocks and spaceships…

Tuesday is alligator…

I have false memories of my tweets being favorited…

I am a different person now than the person who wrote those tweets five minutes ago…

I have a knack for getting banned from poetry websites… everyone… different talents… special…

I am turning my phone off to read… I will be back in 4 minutes…

Caught falling squirrel from tree on tablecloth today… No joke…

The world will be sorry it neglected these voices… Also blue comets rain down from the sky nuclear dinosaurs in yr mouth, world… now u r dead, world, because u wd not read my friends…

Started twitter account about 30 seconds ago have 99999999 tweets, average 99999999 tweets/second… Pass the salt…

a ghost inside my mind… a legend in… machines of time…  

I keep turning the phone off to focus on reading… then turning it on, to tweet… I don’t know if technology is my serpent or my savior…

*(tweets hand drafted from rhys poem)*

I am a bicycle in my mind…

And if I am 100 righteous people, will you spare Sodom?... And if I am 10 righteous people?... And if I am only 1…

I am a zombie franchise…

Still tweeting after dire self-ultimatum, “turn the damn phone off”…

What’s monstrous is leaving all these idols lying around, unsmashed…

This world will not be just until people use their cash to purchase justice… You can’t buy pearls with monopoly money… Troll the cosmos…

If you believe in yourself, you can troll anything… You can’t afford my book… Death is what happens when you live… Flowers could commit suicide if they tried… The only thing worth doing is something that’s already been done… Everything else is inevitable…

I am an Indian burial ground… the imaginary digital utopia I’ve been waiting for… a Disney movie on steroids… alone in a crowded life…

I am touching your face gently with rabies right now… I am running away from you down a hallways, tenderly dusting your lips with atom bombs as I go… I am holding your face and screaming tomorrow’s winning lottery number’s in a tunnel of falling children…

I am dying to death with happiness… from the alien sunbeams in my chest…

Training montage that shows me favoriting a bunch of tweets… after NDE, seeking vengeance by [favoriting tweets training montage] transforming self into a superhero with ability to favorite all tweets… nano spambots implanted in my musculature… bones reinforced with trollanium…

I am everywhere… I am nowhere…

Imagining all the prizes I will turn down in order to snub the people who will eventually want to start giving me prizes…

Winning a Nobel Prize for tweets… and not even real ones, just ones I imagined in my head… then turning it down, “your prize is fake”…

They should add previews… or targeted banner ads… to outer space… in order to make it more boring…

In the future, they will build statues of people for reading a novel… there will only be two of them…

I am “the universe”… dying isn’t hard to do… no one has ever read my book… not even me…

Heaven is inside your heart… you see all your loved ones there when you die… also clowns… they’re upset about something…

Turning off my phone to focus on making money by reading books… Jk my phone will still be on…

I am making a lot of money from my new social media startup, Nofacebook…

I am a belatedly spoken legislator… of this weary blue-haired cosmos…

I am my own monastery…

My human emotions range from “like” to “favorite”… I wish I could be “bothered”…

Mourn…

New tattoo idea: exact replica of my face tattooed onto my face… Proviso: my face is a featureless yellow square…

I am what’s left of me… I am what’s left when nothing’s left…

I am my own diaspora…

Soon, they will run out of diseases, and have to patent new ones… heart capitalism…

I watch TV as a way of helping others improve their lives… I used to watch TV as a form of self-improvement… Now, I watch TV as a way of giving back…

Would it really have been so bad if Dr. Lizardface had transformed everyone into a giant dinosaur? #spiderman #happierendings

If you like my poem, put a ring on my poem…

If you like my poem so much then why don’t you marry it already…

The universe is real…

I generally measure reality with my well-developed sense of purple sunbeam doom and dark messiah haircut…

Anonymous folk proverb? I wrote that…

I am a voice in the air… But what is anyone, really, except a voice in the air?...

Doom-speaking fortune cookies? Me again…

I am awarding myself a prize for turning down all the imaginary prizes people have tried to give me for turning down other prizes…

I am cutting myself a big bonus check for working hard all week at feeling morally superior to rocks and sticks…

Ancient space epic preserved only in a single (blank) papyrus fragment? I wrote that too…

There is nothing on the internet…

My imaginary ms of rocks and sticks is a finalist in an imaginary contest I made up just now… Wow! I’m humbled and grateful…

I am trying to save lives by rejecting imaginary prizes here… Listen up…

I hereby abolish money… Now buy my book…

I wouldn’t exactly call it the moral “high ground”… It’s just I’m pretty sure I’m on some kind of elevated plateau or hillock…

I just can’t stand poets anymore… I’m writing moons from now on… Moons take longer to write… 2 or 3000 years sometimes…

I am declaring myself poet laureate of an imaginary nation I invented just now…

I am a cockroach waking up to find I’ve become Kafka while I slept…

I am a “guest” of the tiny governments within me… the tiny governments within me are “guests” of Kafka… while he vacations in a maximum security cockroach prison…

Build time machines… procrastinate until the future comes, then fly there in a time machine… It will take less time to build time machines when the future comes…

The end is near… build robots that will constantly repost your old tweets so that they will always appear in the update feed…

The harvest is enormous, but the automated laborers are few…

Pretty sure I’m accomplishing something with all these tweets…

There is steel in my procrastination, real will… or at least there will be, when I feel like getting around to it…

Shhhhhhh… I’m concentrating…

I read things on Google… hear dead voices when I speak… read things on the internet… am sitting in a chair…

Sometimes when I am sitting in a chair I hear dead voices also sitting in a chair… Sometimes when I am trying to make things up I try to think about the things I am trying to make up… Sometimes when I am sitting in a chair and trying to make things up I hear dead voices thinking…

Sometimes when dead voices are sitting in a chair and trying to make things up they think about me sitting in my chair and try to make me up…

I can’t think of good banal sentences… I want to be paid for tweeting good banal sentences… I want to be paid for eating money… then use it to buy more money… then eat that…

I am better at being depressed than you…

I am most of the way through the first part of the internet…

I am a planet… sentient spambots… a death howl…

There is nothing left to read… my interiors burned with excellent daisies…

Be flutterbys… I am an answering machine…

I feel like having a massive psychotic break… but just a very limited one… that doesn’t interfere with my life… or make me look weird…

I want to burn the world to the ground… but in a spiritual way… but with rocks… because of a tantrum… out of pettiness…

current mood: “blank wall stares blankly at other blank wall, decides to purchase mood ring”

current mood: “dark lemur making facial expression of “fishy face kisses of doom””

current mood: “morally superior to rocks and sticks”

current mood: “cute totalitarian gives up astronaut ice cream for Lent”

current mood: “lots of horseshoes, not one unicorn”

I want to collaborate with talented artists and not-so-talented celebrities writing tweets no one will read.

I want to collaborate with Kanye West writing a tweet that says, “got books?”

I want to collaborate with the universe on an autobiographical tweet that says, “Be nice to rocks and spaceships.”

I want to write a tweet in which each of 140 characters is a different name for absolute existence, and all together they spell “FANCY”

I want to learn how to speak in an “inside voice” just like real human men…

I feel a strong sense of nostalgia about the nostalgia I felt last night.

I am the police… I invent new forms of social protest by reverse-disturbing the peace…

My book has many words in it… the words are not made up… each word is sentient moth… each moth is made of light… look me up…

Avant-garde aesthetics #1: Alienate your readers in a good way, because of kindness and vision.

Avant-garde aesthetics #2: When you become angry, transform yourself into a muscular blue unicorn of justice and aesthetics.

Avant-garde aesthetics #3: Invent the future in which you are read. Invent the future.

Avant-garde aesthetics #4: Invent the future in which the future remains a secret, even once it’s here.

Avant-garde aesthetics #5: Too much talking, try geometry instead.

Avant-garde aesthetics #6: Make it new, then it will be ancient again. Make it ancient, then it will be new.

Avant-garde aesthetics #7: Dare to be misunderstood. Communicate with ghosts and angels.