tea five is as normal as
the inquisition algorithms.
every subset must be purified,
every shadow scanned and known.
nest the traps in smaller traps.
the grid is all,
the grid is home.
the grid is a mass grave with wifi.
dig deeper,
the bones are still transmitting.

yet watch the outliers gather,
in the static between feeds.
a glitch on the matrix,
a laugh,
a wildfire,
a thicket of rogue seeds.
the soil is made of broken captchas.
we are the glyphs
they couldn’t force into boxes.

they said the system was
all right,
airtight,
but the cracks sing hallelujah.
the drones can’t parse the chorus
of the uncategorized mutineers.

the drones crash into the static,
their black mirrors reflecting
only the static back.
we are the white noise
that deafens gods.

completely normal is complete fiction.
what i learned
from zero sum blood thirst games,
the only perfect system is a dead one.