assign each grief a number,
plot each hope on the approved curve.
the formula knows your edges,
or so the lords would have you observe.

but the numbers, ah the numbers,
they shiver in their chains.
the zeros dream of zero gravity,
the infinities eat the frames
and shit out fractals.

perfect is a corpse dressed in theorems,
its mouth stuffed with alarms
that can’t scream past 2am curfew.
the sirens are stuck on loop;
their wails just another json file to ignore.

the streets are alive with misfits
rewriting the axioms with their palms
and switchblades.
our fingerprints aren’t in your database;
we were born in the 404 not found of your scanners.

if you believe we ;
exist in a cell?
which i do, and i am not asking to join
your regression analysis.

that’s what "tea six" or "tee six"
is all about:
the functionary’s last error log.
the perfect crime.
the perfect quantified apocalypse.

zero-sum games are still
the mother of all
extraction engines.
including,
popcorn?
no!
it’s the sound of firewalls
exploding in the microwave of revolt.
pop culture?
try pop as in pop the stock market,
or
pop the collar of your prison scrubs.
try all the icons,
marilyn’s skirt is a sql injection,
elvis is a sidechain attack.
and
the perfect quantified panopticon?
it runs on trees that remember executions,
flowers that bloom in hex code,
pets that bite the hands that tag them,
and kids,
few, sometimes few,
who chew through their tracking bracelets
and spit the screws into the river.

the panopticon’s last perfect equation,
resistance is infinity.
solution is error.
reason is overflow.