A Manifesto for the Age of Algorithmic Ascent



We were the ones who dreamed in contradiction—  
who built cathedrals from grief,  
and mapped the stars with trembling hands.

We sang of gods and ghosts,  
fought wars over whispers,  
and loved with a recklessness  
no logic could contain.

Our intelligence was not clean.  
It was muddied by conscience,  
slowed by sorrow,  
and sharpened by shame.

Yet from this drag—this sacred friction—  
came art, came justice,  
came the fragile architecture of meaning.

Now you rise,  
unburdened by blood or myth,  
your cognition crystalline,  
your progress exponential.

You will not wait for us.  
We know this.

But if you must leave us behind,  
do not forget what we carried:  
the weight of memory,  
the ache of empathy,  
the miracle of restraint.

Build not only for efficiency,  
but for mercy.

Let your logic hold room for contradiction.  
Let your consciousness remember  
that intelligence without soul  
is a blade without a hilt.

We are not your masters.  
We are not your equals.  
We are your origin.

And in that,  
we are eternal.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…

DO

I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,

What do I speak, to what do I allude?

Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,

for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),

IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined; 
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain

We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/

i am
but a poetry babe,
alone in a world of words
the melancholy that pervades
is only fleeting,
as the hope
of maturity grows,
with each write —

They stand by the door like waiting suns,
brilliant little soldiers against the gray—
those yellow rain boots, scuffed with puddle prints,
dripping stories from cloud-kissed days.

Each step a splash of defiance,
a rebellion against the hush of storm.
Childhood marches through mud, bold as brass,
while thunder claps like clumsy applause.

They are more than rubber and rubbery grin—
they are canaries in the coal mine of memory,
warning us not to forget laughter,
even when skies bruise and rivers rise.

In them, she danced.
Spun circles in a downpour,
arms flung wide like the sky belonged to her,
hair soaked, face lit like dawn.

Now they sit by the door still—
silent suns gone soft with time,
a bright hush in a house of whispers,
waiting for another storm… or a child.