and still I have to stop and think, is it forwards, backwards, and do they know about Daylight Savings TIme, saving who from what,
I jokingly ask myself, to give my sweet angst, a a better coloration,
though these days, constant comets pass over us daily

but he is savvy smart, and yes, extraordinarily ****, and  knows my routines (he thinks), better than me, so when I drive  to  run in Santa Monica, alternating days, he texts in simultaneous harmony a minute after my too early alarm has me stumbling into semi-Cali-
quake-fulness

we are years apart, not so many that it's remarkable, just big enough gap, to make life problematical; his  career launched, serious guy,, me well, i'm a perpetual student, when not modeling, and my mom, GBH,  and my over pestering, now single parent, demonstrate her mathematical abilities by telling me how closehow close  is 30 is when one subtracts  my "aging pores," & how little sleep she gets because she in in her EST zone

but when he calls, he calls at irregular times, "to better gauge my mood," how he, my day surveils, so he can adjust to my chemical imbalance, an area of his expertise; and its sweet, and it works, and too often, I ramble while listens, for his day is ending, and mine is far from fulfillment

he is European, full of genteel words and english language quips,
especially since he believes he can still sway with his sophisticated
endearments;  but what he doesn't know in the late afternoon, his bedtime, while  he is conducting a sweet nothing roundup of   adoration, my hand slips between my legs, and my envisioning of his lean, broad body being in my interior so tight, for I have crossed my crushing legs behind his back pushing him inside, it nearly makes  breathing impossible

HE LOVES MY SOfT TONES, at this hour, my distracted noises, til he says you sound so tired, I'll let you go; and I willingly, comp-licitly, give him my heated best love notes, and teary gasps, when I mumble
see you soon, thinking in my dreams, for I know his schedule, and exactly when I'll be landing and exactly how long it will be,
till we, are within each other, without any interference, of lairs and
sun flaring interruptions,
from time
and space, those scientific laws of this tiring
annus horribilis

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