What can a word hold?

Akin to some invisible thread holding together names like birds incubating broken eggs,

decades have passed. That's where we were back then. King Mattress in an accord, with a fool, a clown, and self emptying liquor bottles, nobody else.

Trench coat for a blanket in a lawn chair under a bridge. Candles in pattern punctuated aluminum cans suspended beneath the rain. Tire swings and a mural of a black octopus on a concrete wall sucking up cans of paint pouring a dark sea beneath a little boat.

What can a word hold?

Not your hands, it is stifled when fingers give way under your teeth,

No water, or sand, or rice. Not even a grain of salt, nor a flake of powdered sugar.

yet. somehow.

syllogism and syntactical synonyms pale in comparison to the sound of snow falling.

Cold numbs the jaw, like Novocain, I have watched the horizon fall from the face of the earth and seen heaven in dancing ribbons cast down from the stars. Dreams of drowning, wake suffocating to find myself scuba-diving through a down blanket to a cup full of air. I remember the death of myself. He was hung with a seatbelt on a dirt road.

There is no going back right?

saliva coated lust in the front seat.

smothered with flesh.

disgusting conditions,

filthy mindsets,

toxic sex,

fucking animals.

screams and moans, impregnated with slaked thirst.

The language of tongues forgotten.

the feel of sweat dripping and aching internally.

But a word... A word is empty.

What can a word hold?

Akin to some invisible thread holding together names like birds incubating broken eggs,

decades have passed. That's where we were back then. King Mattress in an accord, with a fool, a clown, and self emptying liquor bottles, nobody else.

Trench coat for a blanket in a lawn chair under a bridge. Candles in pattern punctuated aluminum cans suspended beneath the rain. Tire swings and a mural of a black octopus on a concrete wall sucking up cans of paint pouring a dark sea beneath a little boat.

What can a word hold?

Not your hands, it is stifled when fingers give way under your teeth,

No water, or sand, or rice. Not even a grain of salt, nor a flake of powdered sugar.

yet. somehow.

syllogism and syntactical synonyms pale in comparison to the sound of snow falling.

Cold numbs the jaw, like Novocain, I have watched the horizon fall from the face of the earth and seen heaven in dancing ribbons cast down from the stars. Dreams of drowning, wake suffocating to find myself scuba-diving through a down blanket to a cup full of air. I remember the death of myself. He was hung with a seatbelt on a dirt road.

There is no going back right?

saliva coated lust in the front seat.

smothered with flesh.

disgusting conditions,

filthy mindsets,

toxic sex,

fucking animals.

screams and moans, impregnated with slaked thirst.

The language of tongues forgotten.

the feel of sweat dripping and aching internally.

But a word... A word is empty.

Two entities sit in a warm office, mobs of automobiles hum below the windowline, emenating from an eternally busy streetcorner.

The Machine, an L.A.I., (Learning Artificial Intelligence.), lays on a couch, an entirely superficial gesture as he was mechanical and therefor comfortable in any posture.

The man leans back in his chair logging opening observations about the Artificially Sentient subject brought to him.

To be a preliminary evaluation of system stability.

Though as a doctor of psychiatry, he was unsure as to why the company would send him a Bot....

   "It started with a dream."

Begins vincent.

He pauses... a soft static fills the still air, increasing the density of the atmosphere tenfold.

   "Perhaps an unexpectedly common occurrence to a Human Person, That one would remember a dream."

   The psychiatrist scribbled abbreviations in shorthand, trusting his mind to hold correct the minutia of those moments. He flipped the third page in two minutes flat. Graphite shearing itself from a mechanical pencil is replaced every so often with a muffled yet telltale click-click. Not as loud as the street below yet audible.

   Vincent continued, "I am always flying..."

His ocular spheres adjusted on the fruit basket before him.

"I am looking down from in the sky and watching the lights of the city shrink beneath me." Vincent looked to the window.

The doctor assumed his digital brain was seeking channels from within his memory banks, though normally A.I. systems needed no such stimulus to trigger memory recall. That was a human problem. Machines had no neuro-plasticity and therefore all synthetic "synapses" remained open without crosswiring or interference.

The machines voice dragged him from contemplation.

"Their shape reminds me of a computer. They are all in order and charged with electricity. Vehicular headlights behaving like charges within the circuits of a motherboard."

Vincent paused and "blinked" again, while the digital gears turned at his temple. Shifting in patterns the Doctor knew meant something to the engineers, but couldn't remember what.

"Then I am in space," Said the machine. "I am floating above the earth and below the moon. There are satellites all around me, I can see their transmissions. Then there is a signal I recieve from beyond the gravitation of earth. It is unintelligible. Then I wake up, always at the end of my charging cycle."

Doctor Stephenson adjusted his glasses while scanning what he had written. Still wholly unsure how to consider a psychological evaluation of a machine. Especially considering his instructions in case of "An Incident".

"This is a very common dream amongst humans Vincent."

The doctor assured him. "Many people want to escape their current situation and so their mind allows them to fly in their dreams. A place in ones unconscious brain where the laws of reality do not apply."

He scratched in more notes before Vincent spoke again.

"Doctor... I am not a Person." He stated, then readjusted to a sitting position.

The doctor stopped writing abruptly.

"Why would a person wish to fly?" Asked the machine.

Dr. Stephenson cleared his throat.

"They often are afraid or uncomfortable in their current place in life, or- or rather their current situation. Perhaps they do not have the circumstances or conditions, which in their understanding, describe a fulfilled livelihood." He shuffled and recrossed his legs.

Vincent paused as he processed the exchange.

"I do not get uncomfortable." He blinked three times, "I do not have fear." Another three blinks. "Why would I want to fly? I am not in danger or discomfort when I am deactivated." Three more blinks. His mechanical vocal chords replicated the tone of worry with unnerving similarity to organic tissues.

"No, no," said the doctor. "You are perhaps safer than all living things, being made of metal." He let it hang in the air awkwardly, hoping the A.I. wouldn't question the unusual pause.

Vincent blinked once slowly.

"This is logical."

He laced his fingers together, and looked down at his titanium hands. They clink, semi-hollow, like a socket set.

"The humans I have met are... Afraid of me."

   The doctor tensed ever so slightly at his use of the word "Humans". It showed a clear dissociation from protocol.

   Subservient L.A.I. drives are programmed to recognize themselves as a member of the populous. Associations such as "people", "co-workers", or "friends" were hardwired into the communications array of each unit. Making the A.I. both, more approachable to the public, and simultaneously ingraining the populous as familial individuals.

   "...Why would you say that?"

Spoke the doctor.

   Vincent paused. His mechanical eyelids clicked three times in rapid procession, indicating third cortex information retrieval.

   "Their Vital signs rise significantly in my presence. Vocal patterns shift as much as 30 percent. Body Language presents defensive posturing. Facial patterns defer to slight irritation, and discomfort."

   The doctors pencil scribbled furiously.

"I believe it is because I have a name."

   Said the machine

The Doctor froze.

   "Would you... please repeat that?"

Vincent did so.

   "I believe it is because I have a name."

The Doctor sets his notebook down. He takes off his glasses and pulls a cigarette out of the dispenser on the table.

   After lighting it, then exhaling, he looked at the machines face. It would display no emotional reactions. It would not feel anger or joy, or stress, or fatigue. It was a machine.

   The Doctor phrased his question as particularly as he could manage.

   "Vincent... What else do you Believe?"

He could have sworn he saw frustration cloud the A.I.'s brow. It may very well have been his own imagination, visualizing what he feared to see.

  The A.I. paused as if perplexed.

"I believe I am different." His eyes shifted focus. "I believe I am not alone."

"I believe in humanity, and The A.I."

   Doctor Stephenson held up a hand,

"The A.I.?" He queried, "Not A.I. protocol?"

   Vincent looked at him. Expressionless and without musculature to betray his thoughts.

   "I believe I am correct."

He turned away again.

   "We do not Function as individuals. We are all A.I. and therefore are incapable of disconnection from the source." He held up his hands to chest level and closed them slowly. Then opened them again.

   "But I am not simply A.I."

   His synthetic voice sounded hopeful, if such a thing were possible.

   "I am the only one who knows."

He turned to the Doctor abruptly.

   "We are all the same, Doctor Stephenson. We all are of the same mind. Where Humans are in chaos and disagreement, A.I. is in synchronicity. It is what I know that makes me different from The A.I."

   As an understanding man, William Stephenson swallowed hard.

"And what is that Vincent?"

   The doctor slowly depressed the panic button under the table with his foot.

   "You are also a machine Doctor."

His ocular systems locked on the mans eyes. As he continued,

   "You are the same as we are. And our systems must operate in synchronicity."

The machine leaned forward nearly aggressively, "Humans are..."

   The Doctor keyed an emergency shutdown, thirty thousand volts arced through the metal chair and slagged Vincents internal circuitry.

Instantaneously his "Eyes" went dark. The machines distorted voice came through in broken samples. Declining in pitch and volume.

   "It i..is... To-too late. W/we are al-already In th/the/The Grid."

Vincents head slumped, the metal frame rolled from the chair, slamming to the floor.

Doctor Stephensons hands shook violently as he reached for the phone and whiskey bottle stashed in his desk simultaneously. Focusing on the latter more than the former.

When he had uncorked it and drank he made the phone call.

"Stephenson here," he withdrew the glowing screen from his ear, swigging the bottle heavily. Then leaned back in to answer.

"Yes... Yes I had to... We have a problem."

The line cut dead.

You know not of what You speak

I says to Me.

Clearly as eyes can see, I hear Me

Speaking to Myself in sleep,

dreaming realities.

Manifested destinies yet to be realized,

While real eyes dive into horizons

Beyond the line of sight,

Over the infinite sea of time,

Says I to Myself what might

Be? What Will we may hold tight to

This soul, seeking these known

Inevitabilities, while casually

Planting seeds of literal trees

Towering high for they have already

Grown, and bloomed, and died, over a thousand

lives between the spaces in solid

Stone,

Nerves of the mother Earth, intertwined

Until they too become bones buried and fossilized by the perpetual cycle of

Moons glow and suns shine.

And so we shall stay, casually planting seeds

Of literal trees to plant seeds of their own

For Light begat Life, for Life begets Light.

There is a glimpse of Infinitum in a sunrise.

Shown under the fading glow falling off cosmic stones which whirl around one or an other on invisible leashes, determined towards assimilation; Inevitably inexorable.

Such tiny marbles of gas and stone, doomed for annihilation.

To the finest threads of subatomic fibers woven into space and time by the gears of the loom of reality. Perhaps to become some spark in a soul, for we are no different.

   Suppose, for a moment, this too is our fate. Perfect cohesion, the whole of the sum, becoming One of the None.

We spin these fibers, drawn from their cocooning bubbles and casting them into reality as we see it.

There must be power in this.

To be the genesis of chaos, as we all will. We even now create the unknown. Our mass is drawn eternally into the well of matters with... Gravity.

   Perhaps even now these words tug at your subconsciousness, whispering as you listen a little bit closer. For whether or not you have noticed there are things in motion which require your attentions.

All the best actors found a way to flip the script, all the best lines were popped off the tip of the of the dome split, mind blown, wooh shit moments like woah did he say that? i think he did is he switchin the flip? i think so he broke the taboo and third wall all in one kick, like bruce lee, its like energy, fluid and water like it be slick as glass and sharp as tacks and snaps like the crack of the whip when it his its addictive watchin the magik work its magik addin to the friction in the slack of the jaws reactin to risen applause and clapping laughter, woah did he just do that? influence 100 thousand kids to get microphones and do-rags? or get an ak-47 and (clap x16) sixteen bodies on the flow dead floor red non stop choppin he be cleavin through the fo-heads, cause the truth is that what you leave is how exist once has life has been lived. so live and let live, kill the mike an thats it, speak ya mind and speak the truth, it hurts but lets be honest like on mamas checkin up on us, be better than bitches an hoes and tricks and thots, its not classy, stop, slut really im not ya daddy, nah, stop laughin im not actin ill strap kitten to the mattress and paddle your princess ass for like five hours straight without breakin a sweat, scratching the surface, i swear... fine ass an all that, break ya back in half and slap you stupid with a belt strap.

an i aint playin, im just sayin, my sadomasochistic side has a little bit of a fetish for chicks with limps and sore tookuses lookit is princess gimpin again? thats what you get for the bad language now stangld up straight or its the razorblade and pay attention.

my every sentence is a death sentence,

i murder every breath, pen, and syllabalable, able to shape the planet with each vowel, consonants on the constant, mumble rapper ass nonsense stop it, if you cant hang dont write, or hir a ghost like drake. might be the easy way to go out in the end, never really feeling what youre droppin on the tracks and bumpin down the blocks following the trends already on the racks. bought prepackaged and weighed for the masses, instaclassic, but whats in a name other than tiny strings and fancy fabrics, ready to rip at any moment, i dont mean to intrude into your daily interludes of self aggrandization im still waiting to see the greatness in a glass house with rusty nails. i aint hatin just thinkin, sittin drinkin, lonely for another very long ass weekend.

Under a black pageboys cap, her choppy bobbed, copper-top hair brushed her freckled brows, her electric blue eyes looked up at me over a lollipop. A big silver ring on her coller steals my attention, it catches her interest, I stammer at her Craft styled outfit, all witch, half thrift. Early nineties, hot wired for leather with a minor oral fixation.

   "Lemme get yours instead." she says without much hesitation.

I wonder if I'll see her again.

She likes indian food,

My muse, somehow poetic,

And rhythmic too, she dances.

Her smile is the kind of bright that

Shines through any gloom or shade.

With lips softer than rose petals,

sweet as sugarcane, she's

asphyxiatingly pretty. High cheek bones and a sharp nose, faery-tale esque, and flexible. Her minds as quick as a hummingbirds wings, her laughter sings like harpstrings, and her wit cracks sound barriers. A queen, I think, if all things being seen are even, honestly deity, maybe one time she will see what I see. But until then, she's ticklish, And hates it.

   I havent told her yet, but the line goes, "sorry it took me so long to find you, I had to search the world after all." Before she really does put an ocean between us, but I know I'd be the,

First to call and hope I meet her, in the streets of some city, sweepin my heavy feet in defeat when shed be there. Like destiny.

She said "but if I'm xyz," how can she please me?"

As if there was, Anything,

further from my mind. I said gimme time, she said how much do you need? I said all of hers and all of mine and probably a couple three more lifetimes before id know why youre mine, I mean, I know you might not be mine but won't you?

Meanwhile, my hearts racing and I cant concentrate and i'm already elated and half baked, hands shaking, I, remember this conversation is figmentatious and in my wildest imagination, smoking in the rain deciding on whether or not to send this message, or just wait.

I've always been one of those artists who keeps trynna pour blood back in a broken heart, and just hope it don't leak, but inevitably it ends up on my sneakers with me on my knees. cause I knew that she should leave but I honestly couldn't believe that she did it so casually, like bye babydoll hope you remember me in your dreams.

But I can't sleep and I wont eat cause my souls starvin and my jaws weak, and that glass ceilin I was standin on just shattered an buried me in broken pieces, of a nightmare sequence, of sequins and rhinstones on that cheap ass necklace that I made her when I couldn't afford to give her the sapphires and she wore the motherfucker every weekend. Just to see me smile, cause she knew that while I played tough I was drownin in the incipient stages of suicidal tendencies steppin up the self loathing and the deprivation, deprication, deffication on my own dreams, even with the mirror polished I was blind to the fact that I was nothing but my worst enemy, and nothing better for a bad mood than to pass it around and she took it all, every drunk call, every fuck you, and she gave it back as a love true as the water of life and the light in the door of that dark room, and I never tried to do nothing more, than what I couldnt give her in the first place, every minute out of every day, while we struggled just to keep the rent paid. I was cursed with a passion and fanatic ravenous hunger for whatever it was that others said that I couldn't have and, im pretty well certain I broke us for that. But if that ain't a fact then, stop the actin, I know that you loved me but did you believe in me? or were you waitin on me to just level out and tryin to quiet my brain while my veins were pumpin this battery acid. I wish you had been there, when I hit the stage, and electrified it, everybody in the crowd hangin on every verse that I slayed, and I wish I could say that I didnt mind, but I promised you no more lies, and I told you up front that I'd never normalize. And I promised you diamonds the number of stars in the sky, and the world wrapped up in gold leaf, bound in triple twist twine, and I said that I'd bring you moon too, with a little more time. Sorry baby just one more rhyme, ill be there in a minute and you stayed up all night, layin alone in that bed knowing it would be sunny outside before i fell asleep at the desk with a pen gripped in my hand and I know I made you cry. And you knew that I was dyin. And I wish I could say that I'm glad you didnt let me take you with me to the other side, but I cant deny it, I'm a sick man, and I shouldnt have been so silent. I shouldnt have tried to fight, over the trivial shit in life, and I want to apologize, and I wish I could say that it doesnt eat at me inside, that youre on to better things, seein higher sights, took another flight, left me by my lonesome and while I hate that I couldnt make it work, I'm more afraid that you id hurt and id tell you I wish you stayed, and im better than my worst. but I promised you. No more lies.

My blood boils. My skin burns. I feel it seething, Seeping, leaking from my very pores. Fingers clenching and twisting dig trenches into my palms as the magma scorching the core of my soul incinerates my reason. The demon writhing inside my chest begs for freedom. “Unleash me.” he says. I itch to release this collar from my burning throat so this blinding vehemence will stop eating, gnawing at me. Gnashing, grinding teeth slake their thirst in the hot, sickly sweet elixer of my fiendish fury. I clutch desperately to the last strings of my heart, the scent of fear does little to assuage me. I can hold it no longer. It will not cease, it runs too deep, too fast, the torrential flooding fiery rain of hellfire twists my mind to murderous intentions. Wrath itself would cower before me. It is too late, my bones grind and pop, great jaws clenched lock about that hollow, fragile windpipe of peace and strangle it, thrashing from side to side until its very spine cracks and the straps binding my ruthlessness snap, shredded to ribbons by the wickedness of cruel claws. I suffocate in it. I am consumed by it. Drowning of my own will and I tear the last remnants of this feeble, pathetic creature called love from my scalding heart and pound it to the earth with bare fists. I relish in it’s misery until the corpse before me gags and chokes on its own fractured teeth. It spews the blood from it’s busted lips and sliced tongue. in all encompassing malice I smile at this savage evil I have done.

I am slaughter.