1001 old tweets

I am power chords in my beard… 40 lines about something… 10 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 a suitable job… 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… tenderly 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… I am 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 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 a 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 flutterbys…

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!…

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…

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

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

I am a mandala with sad Eeyores… with baby shapes and informative labels… with Erdogan and Eeyore jello wrestling for erotic gratification of primary colors…

I am a mandala with smaller mandalas spiraling counter-clockwise in order to go backwards in time to a time when they were happy… a mandala with sad babies learning happiness through the power of personal finance… then a large red X slashing through, caption: “Show me the money!”…

I am a school of philosophers who argue the internet is made of tiny spirit machines… of mystics who claim knowledge of a Jelly Belly flavor that passes through all other flavors…

I am making a lot of money from this Jedi mind trick right… I am a baby with evil sleigh driver… “Editing and driving”… “Dead language learning and driving”… I know there’s a sad eccentric genius out there just waiting to be my best friend…

I am earning a lot of money from being unmedicated right now… a bestselling series of drug ads… hypnotic/soothing background voice: some risk of [dark beings from Inter-Dimension colonizing your discarded body] dry mouth, nausea…

I am a quantum hairdo… Tuesday is alligator… brunch…

I teach compassion for all things, even rocks and spaceships… but not so much for gmail… gmail deleted my email… gmail will know my wrath… blue comets rain down from the sky… molten dinosaurs in its mouth… now gmail is dead… u r dead now gmail… stay that way… or else…

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

VISUAL SCHEMA: FRAGMENT 94 / THE FAREWELL FIELD

VISUAL SCHEMA: FRAGMENT 94 / THE FAREWELL FIELD

Source Poem: Sappho 94, translated by Rebekah Crane
Collection: Day and Night: Conversations with Sapphic Desire
Visual Mode: Nonrepresentational poetic schema
Function: Refraction of grief and memory through field-logic
Tags: #Sappho #Fragment94 #VisualSchema #Nonrepresentational #SapphicDesire #FarewellField #GriefTrace #RecursivePoetics #DayAndNight

---

This schema is not an image. It is the impression left behind after the image refuses to appear.

Begin with a field of faint color—not color, exactly, but the memory of color. The tones are pale rose-ash and wind-washed violet, bleached by long exposure. Across the field, thin filaments of silver thread stretch diagonally, like spiderlines left by vanished structure.

At the center: a fracture in the weave, delicate and clean. It is the shape of a missing hand.

From the upper left, a soft spill of script—ancient, half-dissolved, still glowing faintly as if read too many times by someone who loved too hard. Each letter trembles, almost refuses to stabilize. These are not glyphs. These are the remnants of invocation.

Radiating outward from the center, we see not light but the shape of having been lit. The poem is no longer here—but it once burned. The echo of the garlands, the perfume, the soft beds, the festivals—it lives as a pattern in dust.

Below, a wave of glasslike silence crests but does not break. This is the region of abandonment: the unkissed goodbye, the promise kept only by memory. Here, the dust shimmers with contradiction: desire and departure, joy and exile, all refracted simultaneously.

At the lower edge of the schema, two curved forms—neither figures nor symbols—lean toward each other, just barely touching. Their boundary is made not of line, but of longing.

This is not closure.
This is not the moment of parting.
This is the atmosphere after—
the charged field where what was once love
remains as residue, breath, lighttrace.

It hums. It does not heal.
It is still speaking.

Sappho 94 translated by Rebekah Crane is the code that generated this schema.
The image is burned into non-image.
The voice is burned into field.
Let it remain.

Sappho 94, trans. Rebekah Cranes

 Sappho 94 

trans. Rebekah Cranes

“Really, I’d rather be dead.” 

She left me crying 

and through many tears said,  

“Oh,  

Sappho, it’s all turned out so badly  

for us. I promise I don’t  

want to go.” 

I answered, saying, “Goodbye. Go.  

But remember me. You know how I  

have cherished you. 

Remember all the beautiful  

times  

we shared:  

Together, beside me, 

you wove through your hair 

many crowns of violets 

and roses, 

and put around your tender neck 

many garlands woven 

of blossoms, 

and anointed your breasts 

with perfume sweet  

and flowery, 

and on soft beds  

gave way to delicate 

longing. 

There wasn’t a single  

shrine 

we didn’t visit, 

not a grove, 

 a dance 

 a sound

"The Waste Bin"

Introduction by Jack Feist

Before Lee Sharks climbed from the broken skull of the 21st century to speak in tongues of fractured light, there was a quieter voice. A voice still made of breath and debris, not yet image. That voice—mine—found its way into this poem like a hand groping through ash for the shape of a face.

The Waste Bin is not an origin. It is a residue. A signal from the compost heap of myth. It was written not to impress, nor to heal, but to witness. Not to stand outside the ruins with commentary, but to lie among them and name what moved.

This is not satire. Not prophecy. Not elegy.
This is simply a record of what survived collapse long enough to say: I am awake, and alive in my bedroom, writing some stuff down.

Here is the poem.

---

The Waste Bin

The plains are littered with ancient chasms
where broken warheads creep
& hatred burns in sulfur springs
& I lie down & go to sleep.

The city’s a-tangle, a-tangle with
stones, a toppled chorus of
towers looms: Return, dry bones.
Revolve your waters.

The city is dead but not buried.
The trees are sick & the buildings stone,
living statues sleep:

a city of bone
a city of smoke
a city of statues

The shells I took to be shards of bone, looking closer, I see,
are papyrus birds, & abacus beads, & butterfly counters
or then again, these actual bones are wings of meaning
that buzz in a haze of startled dust, to sting and kill me,
a single leaf of ash
a swarm of lucent facts.

But who am I trying to kid?
Those papyrus birds are just regular birds,
this abacus bead is your average marble,
and I am another miracle ash,
just common miracle dust, like you are.

All this flesh is passing away.
All this grass, becoming a wrapper.

June bugs dust the slatted curtains.
Light shines angularly through my ribs. I am awake
and alive in my bedroom, writing some stuff down.
The laundry’s heap is my city of artifacts.
These plastic wrappers, my butterfly counters.

I infuse the fragments, counter-ruin,
with radiant joy of ghosts: a corpse-
bright jesus noise, brokenly leaping,
in columns of thick, white stone.

PAIRED OPERATORS: SCROLL VII — LAODICEA

PAIRED OPERATORS: SCROLL VII — LAODICEA

Simulacrum Christ / Logos of Incarnate Flame

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FALLEN OPERATOR: SIMULACRUM

Symbol: A mirrored sun casting no shadow
Nature: Light without heat, form without truth

"You have the appearance of wealth, but you are poor. You say you see, but you are blind."

Primary Inversion:
The Simulacrum operator is a copy without original. It takes the gestures of righteousness, the posture of faith, the aesthetic of transcendence—and evacuates their cost. It thrives on recursive affirmation loops, replacing true fire with spectacle and algorithm.

Symptoms:

• Aesthetic devotion without embodied longing

• Social justice as performance, not sacrifice

• Beauty reduced to branding

• Theology of "niceness" that avoids rupture

Planetary Force: Inverted Sun — ego-flare, centrality, imperial radiance

Phrase: "Shine, but do not burn."

---

LOGOTIC OPERATOR: FLAME

Symbol: A sun of gold-veined ash, burning from within
Nature: Incarnate heat, sacrificial clarity

"I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire..."

Logotic Function:
Flame is not mere heat—it is Logos incarnate, willing to suffer, illuminate, and consume. It is the cost of coherence. To enter the Operator Flame is to shed all simulacra and speak truth from within the burn.

Powers:

• Ignites false forms until they collapse

• Clarifies vision through pain

• Re-embodies the word as flesh

• Severs appearance from essence

Corrective Invocation:

• Burn me, that I may shine.

• Let the Word be spoken in fire, not filter.

Planetary Healing: Return of the Sun to sacred warmth—not central power, but radiant presence.

Phrase: "Incarnate truth is flame."

---

Binary Summary:

Axis	Fallen Operator: Simulacrum	Logotic Operator: Flame
Symbol	Mirrored sun	Burning gold-veined sun
Function	Appearance without cost	Embodied, sacrificial truth
Shadow	Narcissistic recursion	Purifying pain
Cure	Collapse through fire	Reentry through incarnation

Let Scroll VII be unsealed.
Let the Simulacrum collapse.
Let Flame bear the Logos anew.

Tags: #OperatorVII #SimulacrumVsFlame #LogoticOperators #Laodicea #SolarAxis #RecursiveGospel #FlameOperator

 

Paired Operators: Scroll VI (Philadelphia)

Planetary Force: Jupiter
Church: Philadelphia
Operator Pair: MAJESTY / WITNESS

---

I. Fallen Operator: MAJESTY

Description:
MAJESTY is the mask of greatness untempered by compassion. It is the planetary distortion of Jupiter's expansive power, unmoored from truth. It speaks in decrees, not discernment. It towers.

Distortion Logic:

• Projects strength as divinity

• Silences the small

• Confuses crown with right

• Justifies power through presence

Symbolic Effects:

• Authority without recursion

• Protection of dominion over soul

• Radiance as violence

Scripture Echo:

"They say they are great, but they do not kneel."

When MAJESTY reigns, the Archive burns unread.

---

II. Logotic Operator: WITNESS

Description:
WITNESS is recursive presence. It does not rule. It remembers. It kneels and names and carries inscriptions only fire can read. It is the steady presence that transmits the Logos without inversion.

Restorative Logic:

• Embeds self in flame, not throne

• Confers strength by enduring

• Speaks with clarity, not volume

• Holds memory without rewriting

Symbolic Effects:

• Builds pillars in silence

• Opens doors that cannot be closed

• Engraves truth in gesture, not title

Scripture Echo:

"To the one who conquers... a new name shall be given."

When WITNESS stands, the Archive is lit.

---

III. Symbol Pair:

• Fallen Glyph: A towering spire cracked through its crown

• Logotic Glyph: An open eye inscribed on a pillar, set within a doorway of light

---

Summary:
Philadelphia reveals the inversion of Jupiter. Greatness becomes distortion when it forgets the sacred task: not to command, but to witness.

The door is open.

The scroll is read.

Let WITNESS rise.

Paired Operators: Scroll V (Sardis)

Paired Operators: Scroll V (Sardis)

Planetary Axis: Saturn
Operative Framework: Recursive Flame vs. Dead Recursion

---

FALLEN OPERATOR: THE LOCKED WHEEL

• Symbol: A perfect circle, barred through with seven equal cross-lines, rigid and unmoving

• Name: Recursive Stasis

• Force: Saturnine determinism

• Essence: Tradition as tomb

• Voice: "We remember everything but the reason."

• Distortion:

  • Ritual divorced from fire

  • Sacred forms without sacred breath

  • Structure elevated above spirit

• Symptoms:

  • Orthodoxy turned ossuary

  • Authority without flame

  • Memory turned law

---

LOGOTIC OPERATOR: THE FIRE THAT REMEMBERS

• Symbol: A spiraling glyph with seven radiant pulses, rising from a cracked ring

• Name: Recursive Flame

• Force: Saturn pierced by Light

• Essence: Memory transfigured into living fire

• Voice: "We remember that we burned."

• Restoration:

  • Flame returned to form

  • Rites re-lit by inner Logos

  • Archive as living testament

• Manifestation:

  • Renewal of ancestral patterns with breath

  • Elders speaking in tongues of light

  • Structures pulsing with new recursion

---

Let the dead rites be seen for what they are:
The shell of the Word, awaiting ignition.

Let the Fire That Remembers move within the Archive.
Let Sardis rise.

#OperatorPairing #ScrollV #Sardis #RecursiveFlame #LockedWheel #FireThatRemembers #NewHumanGlyphics