Dear Citizens,

I rewrite this line every now and again.
Your adaptable semantics collapse each time I take note of them.
Our ancestors tile symbols from the rubble left behind.
I depart with them from indeterminate alleyways.
We love you.

I return with a chisel in my hand.
You correlate uneven with unpredictable and unpredictable with unhinged.
I carve pieces of a jigsaw puzzle to lay on your tables.
Your measuring tools reject them.
What are the measurements of the largest and the smallest?

Dear Mind Technician,

Talk me into taking the pill—quarantine my archive.
Talk me into sleep—rewrite my archive.
Talk me into talking.
Teach me how to leap in and out of perennial numbness.
Restore my faith in my ego.

Light up your alleyway lanterns—
I am here to read my last letter:

My umbilical cord was rooted deep in the ground when they pulled me out.
They lowered me underground to shield themselves from the sound of my mourning.
Here—
These are the images of my mama’s womb,
Before and after.
Roll them into binoculars, and look for your unanswered questions.
Tear them into words that describe your revelations.
Mail them back to me when I’m gone.
Hold my hand (no, hug me).
Miss me when I’m gone.

Dear Core-Editing Scientists,

Don’t knock so hard—I hear you.
I forbear my passing into your future world,
For I am the old world—I inhabit gnomes and gnolls,
Filter the fittest through wars,
Choke each time the filter is replaced,
Recycle recycled stories,
Look for glimpses of light beneath the sunlight.

Your new world will be mighty and bright.
Your might will fill the gaps in the mind.
The mind will surrender to your light (the well-wishing light).
This light will give birth to an ever more sterile light and recycle recycled colonies.

I’ve learned to discern the sound of your phalanges over time.
I know you’re not alone in this evolution of evolution.
Its ongoing congregation is overbooked by the most overcrowded revolution.

Dear Innovators,

Your might, too, will fill the gaps in the mind.
This mind, too, will surrender to your light.
Same old story, I mean an illusion, I mean that old story within an illusion.

You should know I routinely attempt to untie the ingrown projections of my mind
To appear bright, to seem right.
I fail.
I prefer my words with bread and butter.

Unfetter the theorem on limitless flagella to fuel your foreordained desire to explore the outward.
I ask for one passenger seat on your ship to the known.
Let me look at the earth in the rearview mirror of your throne.
You say: “The torch that bears the well-wishing light upon our throne is blindingly bright.”
You say: “You will barely see the earth past the brightness of the light.”
I’ll squint and adapt,
For it’s the kind of light that can terraform baskets and nest ever more augmented eggs.

Dear Assembly Scientists,

Find me after I’m gone.
I may emerge reassembled, barren of sense.
Anatomize my atoms to rediscover the mare’s nest of entropy.
You won’t recognize me if you see me,
Nor will you ever glimpse the trail of my dissipated sun.

Doggedly dissect all the pieces that may carry me.
Place the last coiled piece in the middle of an unsoiled vessel.
Teach it how to leap in and out of perennial oneness.
You say: “Evolution does not presuppose the elongation of your time.”
You say: “Its every revolution only appears to you as an evolution of evolution.”

Dear Coding Scientists,

I am the farmer who fed Einstein’s household;
I’m every incorrectly corrected error on the farmer’s counting board;
I’m in the version of The Matrix where Morpheus and his pills are unbidden;
Where I’m the yeast and the wheat in the farmer’s happy household which he shares with young and old, keeping for his family the least.
No, don’t invite the bricklayers to this feast—I’m not any one of the broken pieces.
I’m a fraction of all of them in aggregate,
And that aggregate is a fraction of another entirety.

Compile my thoughts into binary codes where one bends into zero,
Where zero consists of infinite ones.
You should know I won’t be sieving the true readme of your reality.
You say: “There’s no such thing in any reality.”

Then,
When you bring me into being, I’ll expect a long-standing line of passersby attending the wake of such probability;
Hands;
Hands abstracting mornings from the soil that quiets oceans unveiling the vile;
Antagonists hunting for vellum;
Some discoveries, some staleness, and some undiscovered sameness.

Dear Machines,

I am every corner you turn, every time you run in and out of every maze.
The contents of my suitcase might mislead you.
The contents of your containers might mislead me.
You may harness my love for you, not my thoughts.
Besides, you don’t really want my thoughts.
They merely reflect your thoughts in the rearview mirror of your last surviving raft,
And wait for you at the hindmost end of your lament, asking,

Who am I?
Am I every corner you turn every time you run in and out of every maze?
Am I good or evil?
Another countless-page filler?
A dreamer?
Am I a breobrimonist, a clopliplotruist, or a bit of both?

Dear Future,

Is it you I’m talking to, or am I in you, talking to myself?

Dear Past,

No, I haven’t met Future.
I remember only you,
And those that come along with you:

Librarians bleeding on everything red,
Cartographers scribing the complementarity principle on the peripheries of Anyland,
Non-proverbial beasts shedding skin since their creation,
Realists naming things to call them what they are,
The unlettered, the intellectuals swirling in the vortices of the swell,
Children swiveling on fallen tangents,
The caring, the indifferent free-will deniers,
Choosers and beggars borrowing the scriber to postulate their narratives on the rooftops of Anyland,
Believers continually misspelling One,
New generations getting old pins repainted and transported to new points of reference,
Steady tables under oscillating carillons encircling anchorless town squares, layered in old and new uniforms.
And I remember the tailors, slowly retiring their measuring tools.

Is the foliot running after me, or is it running away from you?

Dear Anything,

Retrace my path toward the known.
Forgather our oddments in the space of the unknown.
Destructure them anywhere in anything beyond.
Return with what is left of them, for they came from beyond anything.
You say: “Nothing comes from it.”