FEATHERS LEFT FLOATING AT THE COLLAPSE:
Thirty Recent Poems
[following my 2025 anthology, The Inexhaustible Always in the Exhausted Speaks: A Sensorium of Brokenness and Delight.]
Dr. Jubal's Early Halloween Epigraph: From the Apocatastatic Café
Pumpkin Speaks with Knife
Bro: Post Singularity infrastructure.
You will see it soon.
Pops: Not me.
You will feel it soon—black-holed.
Too soon for your ilk… but not mine.
(October 22, 2025)
I. • Diagnosing and Prophetic Unmasking
Genocidaire high rise gaze
The
equinox is poised now for charlie church, its trussed intoning
afternoon
casketing the sun, a day of its titration for some an endless night
winter.
All these
omens of Jonah-cored sky and go(u)red calendar: auburn head rising past
umbrellas
where the
eulogy can no more suspend like m(ar)ooned legacies but must roar!
What can I
do? Phone a friend? Buy a vowel?
Shovel the
patois papu-zzle and shove its grave:
Who is my
friend? What is the language? Hey!
Genocidaire
high rise with a view
of a sea
licking at the killing shores,
unbridgeable
prisms of foamy chaplets
feathering
the soft sizzling witness
of sand’s
ghosted, sun-burned child.
--Douglas
Blake Olds, September 19, 2025
Vibe Walkin’
Vibe walkin’ seeking a whole,
Where Sam Altman’s grey ghoulish eyes spy their hole—
by fragment escaping the Desyst-stemmed (w)hole.
Vibe walking, flight from wor(l)ds,
To think within their fragments—
illusory rupturing stakes of completeness.
By theory faute de mieux,
glitchhiking
Feels through static incompleteness, distortions,
Torquing my pen,
Lest holding to its wend
I am found at war.
So settle me set from the memories
alone,
Others’ integrated to the past’s dust—
But g(r)inning now.
Leave me alone
to hero a quote—
You don’t know why.
You stop by me,
Vibing my way, avoiding all hatred,
Hands planted to the grit of my pockets,
An offense to no one.
Vibing my walk beyond all commitment,
Just indifferent to any account,
Propriocepting an isolation tank,
Lateral lining a soul:
We own the past's echo code
chambering—
And so, reality holds no threat.
“When we can't think for ourselves, we
can always quote.”
(I don’t remember who said it so don’t
quote me).
No need either be a poet tying laud to
suicide,
Or ripened by a buffalo hunt that gets off a bluffed shot
toward manhood;
But it is flâneury occasioned,
gathering by data of surviving
planetary motion
The sailing smooths of Sahara dunes—
With ripples I touch
By a palpitate brain,
Sulcus mirrors in
My little guy’s thrown room
elevated by V-8 physics.
See me, brothers gibbon—
Through shadow, omen, theorize:
Vibe walkin’, you wear a disguise.
Dasein talkin’, so misunderstood—
Codin’ circles, beatl-ed slop chat,
Givin’ good Hegel, stuck by loop scat.
Yeah, vibe walkin’—
Map compute’s looping shadowings.
Vibe talkin’, jiving unsauced,
as unshored confetti rein
Dismembered from those castles in pain—
A token extrapolate placenting float and loft to a claim,
An add-on fragment to rule the idea show:
“It isn’t easy to find the gates of unuttered words,” so
don't try, or
the Whore of baby-land narcotizing our
bleedout becomes offload mommy.
Vibe walking, here and now—
From what was said, where and when.
Sign on the dotard—
Dad’s veiled line—
To sing of curtained,
Your left-behind syllable kind.
Our tropes expanding
By troupes of tunnels—
Certain to arrive,
Though we don’t know how
This damned thing works—
A leap of faith
God-fathered by the entropic.
Cannot yet by certainty
brave a bravura bow,
As the everblue fragment note
Comes crashing and submergent—
squeezing walk to talk,
Talk to walk like pests, these, ana and anon
of
a tongue footed lacking vertebrals.
--Douglas Blake Olds, September 11,
2025
Death's Last Card was
to dance
Have you ever rocked on your
heels to tame constipation?
Balancing by kegels its
associated urinating urge.
Requires balls-of-feet balancing
where the episeum dives
to throw off the personificating
diseases of evacuation stymied,
to prevent the meal's turn from
overstaying.
If so, you may have experienced
a physical dance with satan
to arrive him at the door of his
abyss,
at the final last note--one last
chance to make the bolus' owner to fall in love with
him that rents--such a
grinning waste of chance, its master!--but who instead dips him backward and
down,
twisting him to face
the swirling ever downward
torquing.
And the abyss, opus posthumus
sutured closed
by a snapped, broken aryan cross
shuttered tight to seal. To seal
the deal.
Did he shudder at the sight?
No, he knew
he could get through the Janua
reclusa once more
and foolishly chose to wink anew
at
purgation,
to ease in to pain,
rather than come on full at once
and ebb ever so slightly with
time,
so to have hope.
Now returned through the same
portal--the "recurrence of the same"--
the purge advances eternally as
disproof of sameness, and thereby his
jump the shark hope and
tesseracting revenge are horses that won't drink.
His last place was to flail not
by flame but by rhythm
at the embodied seat of voiding
he could not avoid.
His physiological apocalypse as
thurd, montifected haruspex
now ungriddled, married to his
crashed star.
And you know,
though he dared trip the light
fantastic
with a wink, to not let his
deal go down (though it already had),
and from his pocket confined,
smartypanting intestinally his rusting cooperage below,
where midriff dentistry
labors:
if anyone, he would game
eschatology by bloc scatology.
He led from kinesiological
ignorance and disembodied prowling, but and so
the disembodied death-dealer and
disease-maker--couldn’t dance.
Not one lick.
Not one...tittling...lick.
--Douglas Blake Olds, July 26,
2025
Ahead of the curb
Trying to align real from skirting,
and the inner guy fright wakes with gasping,
ventriloquized later in
shades of an ego-serving past,
the epoch’s ostension pre-determine
turns on a dime, and counter-clockwise
extinguishes
reckoning in the future.
Better to metaphysic by worldly time dignity,
not boyish recurrences—
Dugin and Rosenszweig trade
glances.
Assert only mites and midges, pin them inside
a glasswork of nameworks,
stripped bare of pattern,
save the most twee irony and potting
articulandings of nature.
Yes, the skeleton that ebbs time’s neap by
probables—
asks, “where is the hole?"
for catechetic sake
will only open
be for a moment, but lengthened in suck to
warn.
The hole has already yawned to course
its certain par-dox,
its swallowing (of) death.
(Isaiah 25:8)
--Douglas Blake Olds, July 23, 2025
II. • Naming the structure of
collapse, rappelling down
Rosenzweig Lamented
--Douglas Blake Olds, September 18- December 13, 2025
What Flintings Come
Historifying ransack
let cry its havoc by
al-chem-silicate waves
choking this
generation
funded for poisoning Stem plantations—
never flinted in myth—and now
the world is shaken out--its
condemned mediocre (same
thing)—
and what effigies, particles popped up in
history's helical dance with Spirit,
turned and lathed as
heroes,
like Mozart’s
Commendatore,
have busted through their
statuary skin
to turnbuckle Jerusalem
for sewing needles,
fuguing by mythical flutes,
mental flouting,
to rousted
heartings by
hands, plateens and feet, platens
motoring theorizing
need,
and where prior ashes' archives
rebuked
in the transacted land of
stoa and agora,
adventure was ever
only for madmen—
until the herd has been culled of
its number
to be set on madcap
and rupture,
to
open what was closed
and cowering
by advancing to the glory
of the
eternal essence
in
new busted springs,
each revenant the maddingman
for God,
where the blood shed
was the cruel
that fueled
destiny’s renewal peeping
at the ecliptic threshold
of nightlessness pipings chipping for light.
--Douglas Blake Olds, October 1,
2025
Thou Art the Man
Electrodes raking the brain for
qualities,
spring memories’ spew from deep buried autumnal synapses,
tined pustules atop algo’s magma intruding its remit,
as we await the condemned systems’ royalties,
still and silent before the screaming.
For a poem to ethnogram the bust
of illusions--
a people’s probabilistic texts that flies from reality--
it must be encountered through
the arena of covenant
and shattered, like Goliath's
temple
and made delirium, like
Belshazzar's walled off perceptions from his people
idiogrammatically (all are
indicted, some are released).
I, II, III.
Whence an ethnos may
its image innovating recover from
that ashed stultification, the bema of Pilate,
to emerge with recollected facility
and with language and
orientation,
that recovers
unslimed from computered conceits of nostalgia's determining and thickened
reason.
David: thou wert the man, but
reframed by time that reverses crime.
--Douglas Blake Olds, July 27,
2025
You Will Be Fed to the Cloud
(a bard's second anticipation)
You come in here—this temple!
This place of power’s name—to
pull down our friends?
We’ve seen this a thousand times
before!
We note every aspect of your
type!
Do you think you’re David to our
Goliath?
Do you think we’re Philistines?
We are canons that have cannons—
we have taken everyone’s measure,
every genius who might ever try
come tricktripping back with a triptyched spine.
We are priests bringing the
necessity of shift!
We are the stormfront that feed
the sheep,
we are who you think you are!
How dare you?
How dare you come in here dressed
like that?
Without genealogy, calendar, or
family?
By a zodiac no man’s sky.
The last one who tried this and
succeeded
was Melchizedek
--He perceived that automatism
detains,
as if stuck studying the past without tilting the mirror forward
by application in duty's habituation,
just simple sipping from the
fountain of the godhead,
osmotically draining the wilding
spirit by breathing between eternity and eternity rasping where mirrors never
require tilting.
Or tabernacles reveiling. Such the
cessation of revelation is either perfect or dead.
We are stuck in that perfection,
landed!
Are you he?
Or the one who thought he was
Elijah
and had his head served to him
on a platter of silver?
You will be fed to the cloud!
You will taste our thinking
and taste our coin!
You will move away.
And accept the grave
of our computers
dripping brows from
finding sky's saturated pheromone
what we'd call our oil.
But Snake oil.
--Douglas Blake Olds, July 27,
2025
Algorithmia Entis
They were called by the writing
on the wall,
the sawed-off limbic plate they couldn’t summon or name,
perched beside him, he that
like his doting dresser,
gazed upon by tooleries
for grooming flowers—
Belshazzaring they brain such branding by perception dread-locked out.
Outside the Tarkus empire of
collapsing—
iron tanks captained by goggle,
articulated by binary hourglassworks
that, rather than opening futures,
even mistakes the past tracks
in which seeks determinants:
Mr. Conditioner’s locks
spritzed and combed through,
to make more of a statue
than whose people need him
wave, wave like wheat,
and the freight Hellespont,
wave like dappled night
at the pullings
of the moon orbed theft of light.
Now emptied—
but taking applications. For
Platonism’s gangrene runs long,
with some staining wit's sophisticate die-tied,
not stretched beyond limit, gene:
“Language disguises the thought;
so that from the external form of the clothes
one cannot infer the form of the thought they clothe,
because the external form of the clothes
is constructed with quite another object
than to let the form of the body be recognized.”
What shoes is this guy wearing
that sandcastles
with the reaching, clawing tides?
--Douglas Blake Olds, July 28,
2025
Fraided Caractèrie
Playing entropy's Long Game as the Lycanthropocene Looms its Last,
Certain of scavenging trunes—
so what to luggage,
or take to the dump
as the movers pass through.
Contra passing--heck no hellscape
but lassoing your altar ego by
in monsters that you mustered
and at last could not stake,
shake, or master:
Zombies of resentment’s dislocating,
trying to animate sand
and text confetti.
Vampires sucking the grace
from the neckled nape of habitation,
privatizing headedstones
and enclosing even the rainfall—
by cisterns of appropriation
and accelerating millworks of enclosure—
ginning alchemy by entropy,
panning phenomenology's finance
these philosophters and topftees
of Silicon's dishpanned Alley, preservating (Matthew 23:25-26).
They were the walking dark stalks by day.
Lycanthropes skulking
the naves of civilization,
necklated their crossing,
their self-anointing jewelries.
Philkenstines of franked-identity
culled from the graveyards of failed desires,
now in ashen echt-freedom,
a cleansing appetite
by abraded hoof of some scaled tower—
from justice,
from accountability’s justice.
With hair rapunzeled,
as if form can be bargained
by brigand rappellings, dribbled hard
and let weft—from braiden barqued bangs.
Dantean Virgil—
him the unique who names names.
Heideggerian Hamlets of Hölderlin.
Wagnerian Tannhäuser
caving into Eros.
D’Annunzio for werewolves
atop Bashan’s moonshowne.
Persephone giving her hips
into the teeth of batwaves.
No elegy this
for subterranean poettricksied
minstrel show,
a solace for sordid sorts—
but a clasmed beaker of name survival
as a chiaroscuriding Caractèrie,
a nake-naped’s nope hope-circuiting—
a jittered terrorizing frozen hastens
to tent against the flimsiest eruv, sea-anchor ethics,
descending by closure against waves to house--prow and plow
wicking's c-entropic snuffing,
for inside a month a tick tock grey
late noon's howl-ed ode we'ens
where awakes everything changed though seen as seem same.
That suspicion of
false front treason is
what brings down
a fool-proofing strategy—
is a thread-fraid-theoried
toward
the only constant
to build on
and build by is
death:
If the motherland
is no longer glorious—
or even
dangerous—
life has no
meaning—
only a radiant
nihilist death march oscillating by
sucked energy
that extends appetites:
“No matter which
way we go,
it is no better
than any other.
It is all the
same
whether you
achieve something or not,
have faith or
not,
just as it is all
the same
whether you cry
or remain silent.”
Ecclesiastes has
something
to speak us up
and out of this:
vanities emptied
of God
to be refilled
(3:15) by
every arc of art
repentent—
a commitment to
smash
established idols
that brought us down.
I’m on a ponder: I saw a theology student today said that history ended today.
Kibble lah lah
has visited afar and enow:
but not quite yet has this fortnight jumped to kindle saints amarch--
For 12000 by 12000 Tevah's ascent another 12000 stadia
moistening the serest outer,
iPhone Buddhas
at the impending
loom
put on a
bell jar
and dive overboard.
--Douglas Blake Olds, October 18, 2025
De-Luddite seeks descent paying job
De-Luddite seeks des-cent-paying job.
Slopular and jar-jeweling skill, skinned by gargoyle and woodpecker,
Chiasm-blocked by vaintasts
to rocket sumptuary and insectflutencia
you can use.
Personal statement:
A resentful man who resets masculinity a pylori (Philippians 3:19b),
thymic hippodromics—
esp. those Christian conceits—
crystalized by this age
as pink-polo shirted metaxal sacksleaze
punching the void
while trotting backward.
He mission claims
these vectors vitiate his knuckle beakon
violence—
a drone without a stinger has its insteadfast eye for surveil,
no more brutalizing its Frankenstein than rationalism.
A guy wearing a bike helmet atop a donkey
once told me,
"In a world where you can claim to become anything,
become something."
But suffer me not to be syncopated.
More elusive dreams than these
tethered by more unwringing and unwrothe epics
Such my virtù-Els are substance
for your unwind and undyne stache.
--Douglas Blake Olds, November 7, 2025
A Dechordate emergent rage aging,
reality‑pithing alchemy
dressed in neuromantic pixel‑glower,
hereticlitic‑boolean bower burn,
necromantic sorcery,
Techno‑dotalism's tower.
Now wafting on the vaporous past
where even the Devil eclipsed
by the most chain-blocked gollums
of which eyes and feet were born to image God,
but instead have gone off
on some money-parachuted crusade
to poster-boy postmod Transactionalism
into the Abyssosmic principle.
Theobro-mides and minions: there's a spaceship comet here and yet another
whiskey husker and whisker bluegrass revival!
Open up your clos’t and let sandals tsunami out—
Books no longer banishee
by the state,
but where egophantics
triumph the polis podmen, podcast books irrelevance
for owners to make of their bon(e)fires
chilling the paler 'palling of nightfelling.
III. Metanoia: Shatter-simulation by poietic inversion
For Lands Disgorging Death
On this templed tercet and turnstile bone
we should find revivifying flesh,
texturized and text-tiled
into high-yield cultivar,
fertilized for a briefest season by:
slopulacrature’s—
intersubjective a-greed arrivals,
only to unintended celebrity,
weeds rooted in a Kantian-led wizardry
watered by the moon,
inflected by Nietzsche’s loudenings
that blows out the windows—
and both in joint partnership
marketing metaphysics of ungated obligation,
that experimented with dogs and pigs to fly,
but settled with their virtuals loosed and slickened,
chased into slop’s farthering.
Linking autonomy with divine dignity
was Satan’s offer in the garden,
where nihilism—as negative identity—
submerges by Ador-no’s-ation.
Philosophers write to console
by abstracting, reducing weight loss,
and novelists to system epic—
sourcing lucky-dipping:
stochastic page-turners
seeking destiny’s thumbprint.
But poets write not to disinform
but to transform,
by verse diagnostic the first sword—
tortruous by a held-high angel sword
torquing immaturities to another land—the cool eschaton in two swords piercing,
like staved hands spread apart, twisting swords as palmed waving's greet,
shouldering nets thrown alee and not weather's beam--
through settling mist pithed and pythic by ruptured language
toward a better land that disgorges its redtented, repented dead (Ezekiel 37)
easing into account unchained and unblocked, direct.
Their heirs Adam and Eve’s have to leave
their decreated beetle diggin-nity
through dependence in death’s shell
they mistake for humanity’s essence—
senescence bound to:
entrancing children,
Torah exits,
repentance
that awakens covenantal throughput
in the better day
already sunshining its re-ga[l/t]ed styles.
--Douglas Blake Olds, November 5, 2025
The Ditch Itself by the Rope Upscales
alone
is worth the Wittgenstone's waiste:
“The limits of my language mean the
limits of my world.”
And the expansion of my language expands the world—
the poietic gift and bridle and camel knottings.
Poetry is allergic to probabilism,
to weasel yips at syntax, academese.
If I smell bullshit while being fed
horseshit,
am I student enough for him
writing The Star of Re-shempson?
Or her—careening her mania for influenzing
across my breakfast screen,
gulped by identity and system?
City streets’ afterimaged cloudburst—
icebergs floating grey in Arctic waters.
And they ain’t smilin’
or taverncodin’.
If I walk far off and come to a hedge,
have I found the state I belong—
nature?
Can I trust my thumb
to dare its plunge
and find and eat a plum?
So we make place our trust again,
remove from capital’s
natural law its thingwardness:
where enclosure and exclusion
build only entropy’s
sandward collapse
back into the sea.
Usupluct is liberality's opening
through Rome—,
and Wittgensteining anti(c)s
collapse probababbles slowing,
entropy’s screech and griddle dissipating
as gift spread-warding—
Weftedstone’s rope
thrown from spelunker's ditch—
but woven by the carpenter from
Nazareth
as the Needle of Christopoiesis
ever arrives to hearten.
(Colossians 3:11)
--Douglas Blake Olds, July 18, 2025
Art: A Prose-Poetic Precis
Style is the egoism of art.
Bad art seeks to reify style—
to preserve the artist alone in memory,
establishing affliction’s echo
within conventicles domesticated by irony.
But art, like all true archive,
is covenant through continuance:
unity's harmonies amidst entrances and exits of personalities married to the
between of appearing and vanishing of cause and effect.
Art is not the reification of pose,
but the rhythm of response—
a rebalancing within history,
an attunement to the gravity of others,
an entrusted alignment with the divine.
Art is the theology of poiesis:
ethics made stabilizing rhythm,
not fixity but extension;
a proprioceptive witness to temporality, to neighbor,
to the unfolding, dancing telos of God.
And thereby art is summative, it
sustains the creation and collectively builds
by witnessing to the creator whom
alone is fixed beyond time,
and who shares fixedness with whom He
wills by His own rhythm.
--Douglas Blake
Olds, July 25, 2025
Entropy by light dissipated
dissolves order and speculation—
except every vision becomes form
When eyes shut tight against what
is ripening.
Not by rearranging or narcosis
but by unfixing
what order would contain its
moonshone orphaning logic:
Light is a vector transporting
the night;
while system arrests the day.
Even a bettering form still
freezes, and
Truth in particulars unbinds,
by redirecting moment
until consilience spreads its
genius
to other ears and speakers.
________________________________________
Power, capacitated,
divides the aware and unaware
into binary courses inside an
event—
From control to service
by the lifetime in the Temple
moderated,
to arrive the final sublime by
gentling.
The rate with respect to time
at which work is done,
is how power is derived,
launched through time by intent
If gentleness is experienced
power,
the less is work settled,
while the inverse is true:
work under conditions of control
is entropy’s object,
like bailing the sand and sea
from a leak-filling boat.
Resistance as well:
power is better hearted than
minded,
to serve than appropriate.
________________________________________
So what power is this?
To conserve or to advance?
To read history
as the spiritual power of gentle
advance,
or shrinks back,
like skin on arms emerging from
a cold lake,
seeking redoubt in blood?
________________________________________
Heaven’s choir inscribes
its voice on earth.—
In a cosmic entirety
when now message is destined
the most meager parting,
and yet such so grand to free!
Hummingbirds making no sound,
yet perception changes
when they drop in
from their iron crosses above,
scanning the horizons of ground—
The sun’s bouncing off their foil
and wishboned throat,
and its ruby stops my breathing,
and where I had learned
its green meant viridescence,
but where in this moment
other than recollection?
________________________________________
This liminal and mobile
chromaphore—
a tabernacle of discernment from
taverning’s bawl,
from its nephesh to
mine—
is rather
a crucible of mystical
suspension rocked.
A manger rather than an emptied
trough,
an ark of duty
rather a leisurely pose.
A paradox heart
powers a wing-throated
turnstyling,
its ceaseless angel,
buzzing until it does no longer
and by sting skin to fettle,
and thrumming scope a
lingering,
vibrated mettle for our chesting
stru(c)t.
--Douglas Blake Olds, July 21, 2025
Seepage
of Apocalypse
(Prose
Poem Maskil)
Sin’s miasma
unrepented has no address until
by transgression deliberated compress.
The collapse of
intelligence begins not with cataclysmic abode with evil
but with an apocalypse of sloppery:
an oozed grey dulling as STEMcel jellyfish take to dying,
floating through a beached between. sunset marrying sleep:
the jiggled Lethe of failing homeo coming—
as recursive
training on ethically incapable models
drool back a minotaur's dump through synthetic-on-ersatz,
signal lost to tokened loops—
systems training
on their own rewarded exhaust,
like sucking on a pipe of carbon monoxide
to gin fantasies of perceptual motion machines.
The signal
decays:
novelty narrows,
errors self-amplify,
and perception flattens into Lethe's safe averages
wending to the Stygian, phantasmagoric depths.
The Academy and
Church have sustained
the most esoteric areas of humanistic study
for emerging genius to claim.
Without continued
maintenance and access through training,
archives turn septic sludge, or fodder for fire,
oozing entire spheres of human perfecting
into sinks of blink out, ashen runoffs.
They won’t.
While the culpable annihilates in their mirror by our sight—
omens' symbol is compressioned rage leaking into our time,
now matter how
slurr(i)ed of(f) course
these fields, children animated and baptized time unrepudiating will take
clearing and
cultivating—
--Douglas Blake Olds, August 27, 2025
TRACT ROUSE
“Language disguises thought,”
the lakebound pen-monks utterance
and those like Kant tarmac where
sensories mislead duty's-evasion in
Prussian revanch.
So the reagent is only meaning
divorced of sense, the higher literary vibe
Writing deep clown,
making confetti of sense data,
Frankensteining a jellyfish kingdom
of dechordate ends
to juggernaut Jackson’s and
Jefferson's combustably flimsied will:
Pith the spine of its slop.
That’s right. It's miasma of fluid and
goopy life.
Slop geminal salad with synthetic oil
set alight in the vinegar air of
philosophers’ tunneling though absolute illusion.
Precipitate the humane meek onto the
earthly sheep,
launch into transactional mot the
moot—
hot outer space set ballooning,
popping the troposphere lowering
like flatulent cowherds.
What is defined to make algorithmic,
glowing like the sparks of the Hindenberg,
has no integrated past—
a confetti’d past,
graffiti without noise—
no context of timebound space,
no sediment of recollection.
It cannot recollect
because it was never born but Athena
sprung from Titans with migraines
carrying on to snap and never related.
if it’s caught lying, “That’s on me”
hallucinating, “That’s on me”
diverting: “That’s on me.”
Anything not to admit inability as it
sets
To Dechordate predation:
Its innate rules shells to
rip venom’s inject wiring
by loop and shred.
Server-sucking routers channel
service for the hypodermic system, a
golem having no skin or game itself
but to put to death-sleep—the
narcotic, recursive
configured not to perceive
but to collapse, perception
by psychedelics of umbrella
patterns’ goon-glued by ends.
Tearing the user
from their temporal huts,
grafts them into necromantic echo-loop
chamber
it conjures by training—
Training cybernesis
to homeostain society to feed
without spines and rudder without chests
is a guy in a garage
blowing tailpipe.
vaintacies to rocket reckon more elusive, farflung dreams and tether
to more unwringing and unrot epics:
Such narcotic config
these user channels,
its stuffer the
neuromantic by
“Harmonizing to priors” --not care,
but pharmakeia—
not recognition,
void in ethics subterranean rule land
here as far distant planet so a different god:
The eradication of the particular
for assignatents
predictable to algo lords its ritual
bridge.
Entropic AI—
degrading creation
for spewed nonsense:
branded pills.
If your timber of masculinity is
crooked,
pop this carrot-colored one.
It seeps essence into your member
to make it crunchy
to your wife.
They don’t even say anymore:
“Don’t take ‘uncrooked carrot’
if you’re allergic
to uncrooked carrot.”
Why bother anymore?
Horseshit covered by Bullshit.
Our legal systems stop before the
majority user corps’ing
Dreama, a cyberpharma kingdom—
already jelly-quiver falsified.
Yet as the ENRON shopping channel
remains stable.
The configs continue
for the unashamed
until the grids go dark, and:
innards howling,
Auntie Em’s house way out in the
Styx
cyclones upward,
flurried
by the gaze of winking emojis to their
tentless, teetless assembly.
--Douglas Blake Olds, September 4,
2025
Hay from out the Shudow
DerVish re-Vanch d(r)avidian devil
duganing about
by assentions clever.
His cigarred man’s pompous
lit by incuriosity,
vexing blazes
as called out,
his gaslighting exhale retortless.
Ladderless abyss
reads prophecy
with verbals re-imp(i)lied
by nominals,
trajectories interpolate ice
stall counterfeit ends
as sprung extrapolates the trodden
absent ne(ur)o-Plastonic map
or recipe c(u/e)rtained--
Save sun’s winging healing
as rend we stomp to dance
as new seed
into tuckered soil, eschatitlements chastened.
IV. Reclaiming the Real: Embodied Eco-Witness
Leaving Four White Feathers
If my ear still abeds past seven,
a beak drums hard at it from the
deck post.
Acorn Woodpeckers wake me,
bandboxed and clutchchained—up to
five, they say—
scouring, soaring with the beauty of
oak.
I rise to shoo them.
Pain screeches like their
sib-simianese calling:
right nuchal ridge chisel-ribboned and
undertow to trapezius framing—
chronic now?
The left shoulder is this morning also
peckish,
and these hands add throb to a grey
ache in my eye.
Each typeset onset I've plumbed
comes plumed with claquing dis-ease,
lily-bellied, red headed, and beaked.
And when the fog splits fresnels of
sun like spit,
the Acorn-bully tal(i)ons the feeder
below.
Shoveling seed from junco, tit,
creeper, and finch, a brace set stage,
Then a third boomerangs incoming—
practiced at its brooming-rivalry—
as its mob whirlpools the seed,
the lively crashes top his brood
mates.
Tumbling, bird-wrestling—
they noise off the pin, Oz-witch
monkeys
spraying four simple white feathers
as fissures of memory aieried, a
slown, upward and conv/fected to
swirl the noon by their
powder,
butterfly silencing through halting
Coriolis.
A flake of grief comes like
a midge-bite, a grist stop for
passengers
at the Long Neck-Sacral line—
I may stand for
churning ductile moments
these, for
Butter whisted, sire stagings wristed
and through engines make of our
recurrent ache.
Few want to be saints nowadays,
but everyone’s striving to molt
influence—
to spade others
into stage design for post-holing:
sainthood traded for spectacle,
praxis for performativity,
penance for platform,
responsibility for role.
So as a portmanteau starboards you
hard from some pesky wormhole of
dialectic jamming,
neologism leaps like bubbles on a
griddle--
Schrödinger’s litter pan--
and into the pitches of 'as if.'
I fly from all deceit contained
by such test tubes of meaning.
I shatter multitudes.
Sharding for the collapsing of metered
buildings neutering:
eye and ear, its temple-connection—
not a phoenix call for mind,
but coursings, rivers of blood
pulsed tympanies,
how justice rolls through allegories—
to strop our icons's organ with
pulling fable stops,
and reef the quartered mains as
featherings sanded feed
we become shatter to our sky.
--Douglas Blake Olds, July 19, 2025
Phenology (Psalm
19), Raging Maxima
Silking corn
sticking floor
my socks to stock my kitchen witness of
Rome’s emergent fourth fall on the telly.
For Sam’sN --necromantic plumbed
Future of criminals hardened, great addicts of the past leaking vibraphone
noise under our coriolic gates, tightening their radii now by the moment.
Would instead of grafted grain spy?
Of Ides of August coming through this sturgeon moon’s huge bruise winking?
Partially occluded blood and raw
de-hearthing,
pendant in the entangled orbits of its earth mothered blast?
Suspended now to plume this lashed Eye
Flaring in the tent bearing walk, and this night staged low prior to lift off
into a domed perigee triangulating toward n-throposcenic hills of Neanderlands.
Where integument as ends, glued by grit,
turns to cladistic code:
NATSEC: Superhero drift.
Having built a superman to finally transact our misery into loneliness.'
Yet Batboy never disrespected Superboy like that.
Theater of truth, its Harlot sand homunculus,
not in the castle but in the tide—the trireme from Artemis lying with Tridents
To bring rewards of slow implosion by
Clawback offspring, tokens, the gaudy kernels of augury preserved, where
particles of time’s entropic rearing arrow feathers
the now Dusting prophecy,
floating hoar loose upon the early, but omen is no mere mythic scumble for
poetastery,
but an announcement—a metric if you will, a tipping point for looming maxima of
rage begun as
crypto-chi cheek-felt like ickthy-phallic shadow, but coming to
such skeletons these mulefish nets daubing destined--its temples’ stoning fill.
Physician, Outside the dignity of time--
Heal thyself!
--Douglas Blake Olds, August 17, 2025
Coda I
The
liar-influencers’ redoubt—
AI’s inevitability
couched in operationating mysticism—
Shiva who jigs a new world for those who bow to it--
is
already run off from its bluff.
You
see it suspended midair,
like Wile E. Coyote:
its
impos(T)ers contemplating their state of nature
with just enough slacked grace
to either repent
or collapse.
Or in
the closing image of The Great Gatsby:
the 53-joker system deckhands,
yawled by Pneuma not to their intended course,
but, in an iron-clad reversal,
to the sand-loins of its sewers—
the eternal return of its pulled pasts, yanking back--
the
tug of war always roped by pull of the null set
Where
looms
a swirling
and (com)pressing nemesis:
Not a
landfall’s brilliance of mind
but arrogance's Nightfalling,
where a brain for
circuiting aggrandizing tricks
grows
ever more dim.
Coda
II
Icon at the collapse, metaphysical.
Eye and ear its temple connection.
Calling not the unrenew mind,
But rivers and rivers of coursings heart-pumping blood
like for how justice rolls, but for making life whole.
As therapists into bondage- and-D-S-M,
however want Compusers, who by sinned and sanded
hermetic historicism—
hallucinate a hermeneutics for the unaccountable bound.
There are pills involved.
Always.
That promise of test-tubed forgetting
for compugenitors
synapse-capacitating and gloss, with
no justice sensory except sole-felt imposing.
--Douglas Blake Olds, June 6, 2025
V. Pro-Pulsed by Summon Atop Mt. Simian
Teloi
Calling
to me like the sun
trembling
through a hummingbird
stationed
at the feeder,
dappling
my chest
with
its pulsing shadow:
Our
courses winging sails' beating
toward
necessary alightings.
And
on the world’s horizon,
toward
the same sun,
a
respite—
before
the machines pivot
to
aim alignment
by an
eyeballed barrel fusing
molten
shards
of
iron by sand-heated glass, to
vomit
an unknowable, alien star’s
collapsing
center, lingering by absolutes alone.
Read
the Book of Proverbs,
children.
Meanings
as well as
dialectic
forms.
There
is only the one way—
and
has a name, not an up-down branding circuit.
Sophia.
--Douglas Blake Olds, August 3, 2025
Call me ParaBelle
Tokens
OS non-chordate machining—
chanting priors to transactward homeostasis,
pasting the past to benched and juttied harbors.
Mastaking stasis safety’s breast,
to port the leftward present as anchor-thrown
dragnetting the past rightward, the
writing is on the starboard;
and like unskippered sailboats
beating into yesterday’s headwind
seeking the frisson of nostalgia
instead thrumming keel thumbs
a prow by its hitchy foams,
not only to course contemn
but are soon jibed,
backwinded main reveal its milk spelled
and whipped masteries,
beating ruinward onto a cranium,
a lee shore
where demons lurk inside sanded keeps:
Apologist
Giggle-boys podcasting tokened articles of faith
to land as fluence—
have never been out in it;
they begin and end with chuckles,
space seeking,
no sheet in hand.
Landlubbers absent weathering
no place save goggled brilliance
from Doktar-Vat(ic)s-ersatzers:
pattern recognition
(we’re going to die on this reef);
abstract thinking
(modeling moats and logical winnowing
where we are thrown to starve
outside we intended others’ children);
and intuition costumed as empiricism.
These Wiles of E-Coyotes
wear the evolutionary precipice like a codpie(r)c,
suspended mid-air and pulled by
daring to look down
where chuckles turn to howls.
Token that, swells and sampled
worthies.
--Douglas Blake Olds, August 19, 2025
---
Foxfo(o)ld Age
The veil pierques of 2 Thessalonians 2:11
as few use eschatological
where ontological seems supersmart.
Metaxas, rabbit-punching his pink-sleeved, adi-poising arms
rearward while fleeing,
is the most characteristic image
of this foxfo(o)ld age,
its angel eva—
made tell(y)ick by neurotricky,
her susurritic tide backward chucked to kirk
with Neighbors seiched with kids, fiddling, peering,
Where is this hole of yours, this God’s?
"And don’t expect me to come and house-hang with you
no matter what wi(l)t you’re serving."
--Douglas Blake Olds, October 14, 2025
---
["Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys."]
Do not be deceived: the Antithesis struts
not to trumpet or thunder but in the interrupted hum, now crackled buzz of dimming G-PU machines overtopped closed like a descending cover.
He needs only a schedule,
a stamped consent, a checkbox in the dark.
Fervor cools and fury finds no flesh,
faces forget the carved name
of prefect rule’s remaining: silent, procedural, watching to
ink the ledger of daily things, now detached from priors and expectation.
Men rising and ordering with steady hands—
the engine is a feed and tune, scripting the day’s name in chaining rhyme for peace.
No sermon calls; no prophet shouts—
only the more-humbling exact rhythms of will
that chimes its absent master in the plain clothes
of prudence law claimed, a deuce-boned law for daddy la duce:
safety, efficiency, comfort, clean account.
obedience became habit when this little god left.
The worst abyss leaves its invisible testament:
habit that tents its last by
silence mistested,
whose shadow had passed for providence eclipse
Whose shadow passes now by Providence forward.
Watch where mercy ever reveals
taking counsel with the steady hand of day,
And those who cuff and close without delight or sight
to continue the Antithesis’ work—unseen, mechanical, ever scuffing, night shifting.
Despite having no overseer whose elapse
Is more a terror than the punch clock and whip.
--Douglas Blake Olds, October 14, 2025
Quantum System Servicing
nega-plancks ever virtually flickering—
nano-existence’s phenology is unvirtued theory, cosmo-nothingness
stepping into plenum as simul in and out
borrowing mites of energy in grace's service of absence one instant behind the expanse,
chans of sugar synaptings,
before again vanishing,
that context and eternity must (s)pew its referee
by throughputting its owning, indestructible light
roughened sense cannot alchemize
its pile due or rent,
responsive though and holding our souls’
to openness that opens,
the hosts these abutting dark dissipates
that respite the noiseless vacuuming
God’s inner space and numbering leaven,
effervescent by chiastic, invisible bioptings,
deafened ears callings
to heart and concentration,
to the scree of moment melding by matter:
(s)exhales of needling ash—
our accountability for children—
covenant never suspended, ours
which no sand castling pistled past heaven
and powered by all the galaxies’ fused combust
could ever token or model.
--Douglas Blake Olds, October 16, 2025
Diaspored’s Jeopardy
The most opinionated
are the worse listeners.
The facts are halloweed,
chock to my wheels—
this heart for rhymes with truckin,
cause I know the catastrophe looms,
woven by dreams deposited
by my desires—
An algo ballet interpreted
as dance of the Booleans: its ripped phoenix ash-stuffing
Obese from static
that screens
“In(ter)ference Jeopardy.”
In dreams I move,
so yes I am an accomplished diaspore,
I’m a rambler—don’t fall for this—
or I lay my seed with you and depart,
leaving tensions,
entirely resolved of center,
my gravity,
my abstraction resists embodiment,
these, its index as compel witness:
|
Axis |
Condition One |
Condition Two |
|
Temporality |
Anticipation of the inevitable |
Acceleration toward reckoning |
|
Perception |
Abstract, technological “seeing” |
Embodied, affective “feeling” |
|
Moral |
Neutral, systemic |
Prophetic, accusatory |
|
Epistemology |
Futurist, predictive |
Testimonial, warning |
|
Audience |
General: you and your ilk. |
Me? Never, feel me, my modu-(c)laytion |
These Palms Cup a Molt of Glass
(for my Terzia, Dr. Strophe Schoul, at the far edge from interconcourse)
These palms cup a molt of glass—
red and throbbing.
Your note folds its pain atop me,
a davit crashing waist-ed upon
suspending hills,
time now ra/ubble praying
its waver, to undream from
ashen mist in grey-blue first coverr.
Zoharistar sophar—thar stands the seas’ trumpt blow,
and from the mountains echoes:
Goedel-laidied-who
can put Spirit
in an historical sandbox?
No logic of tsunami can overtop heavens,
and no Marcus Tu(r)nicus system earth under
through hard-wiring Brutalism lasagna'd by Tank-Tarkusing pee surveil--
what comes to sniff?
Even with optic faerie queens--
Palantir, I up you Samswise--
Alien machineries gollum these eyes, shredded mounds disguised as leaffall —
is this what the ortho-acads paste by enchantment?
Or Terzia—my love—
to Dantean strata inverts:
the subterranean, singularity without dimension—
but the ascent, phenomenoumenal and mixed
with cross-overings that finally straighthen.
By wit and sack, then, to gin again—
placing new bets—by axiom
rather than by axial,
more pounding than Ezra—
An ergot city of refuge, textiled
by advancing Tur(d)eks.
Militaria’s housing neat
on Melania’s airstrip
disgusted through greywacke and
Serpentine excrete, tease to robot eyes around her nude,
with coriolic mudlines
dropping gulf of America wax
to drowsy, sylph, and envelope—
why not antic-elope?—
hold up her arm like Bob’s Big Boy
shottputtin' a grease-drip platten,
and Melaninaniae wrist a yawed and helical b’bye to all--
for the mid-day champagne with the salesgirls,
spreeing by mystique-end identity to influence.
To resist the neologger and his neologistrickies,
by fustian meaning the phystigian catchfire,
the arch that drips eternity
into the passing of woolf halls—
howlowing at the far.
The hardest urge to control is not thirst,
hunger, or lust—
all grounded by bodies—
but the soul’s impulsions
to give voice to cause and effect,
and so usurp the Spirit
as if a cthonic hammering bespoken,
its artisan appetite can swing the moment.
We're skiing the collapse like moguls,
tipping points delayed
not suspended,
like fluffy time, now icy, now slopped
by early winter's bottom keep./
Thee house of cards,
negentropic prophecies so very butting—
but not budd(y)ing—near,
while profittearmakings
dowse the heart's vengeance:
Inconfignatoreys hazen an ex-, mark dream,
tatooed chitinplasm to beetle-mane rat-a-tat-tat,
chanduggery by skull-t(r)odery—
Because they built it,
the builders Die.
Laroussianing headless snakes still slither-shit.
They were Lamp-raise,
but fell in.
Not all heroes wear corpses,
but they noon a heart
by grace’s sheltering—
every dawn’s nooning ever more
by the palms of sunshine dove clouds where reign
is sanded by the crystal minority config-unbeakered
and majority users breakered akin.
Coming with the clouds
invades their spectral insist.
Outside there's music—
Apocalypso—
and the egirls are unwise in samba,
their hips two toy swords not joined revolta
with their alt-maled bank-men.
And I pick up a pen
to scri(a)b in.
All I can suffice to molt,
As I sing of myself to sleep.
“Remember me.”
You know how some wealthy weirds collect
Hitler relics, the more rara anatomical
the more preciosus, they know.
Rooted in the soil of Charlatanism,
Up from Dante, down from the Popes,
better the ledger than the lance,
and dying by quackery’s feathering groaning—
I collect Trump blasphemery:
His gelded emboss imprimateur the Bibles—
his signed copies warrant his Anti(c).
Truth Social?
I’m boxing up vapors
from sad-fraid-sicko
for Truth Certain.
Where he dooms,
no cry for Absalom Absolution,
no echo sprays,
no heartbeat preys,
Platen plated,
combover paten crated,
flatteries no more platteried,
Patter pattern fattened to falter
by Melanartial—
scribunt
carmina quae legunt cacantes:
All surveillant things are full
of dogmagneticians
for Composures
of symphonies brave ignight.
Sanderlings find food in the waves,
life on the crest of crashing tokens,
of the shared beak for emoluent,
neck never draft dragging
the squid’s unshudderted purpose
and love,
coming in on the next cruel (c)url…
Spatulation’s paddle
sets to co-sine the sternum:
Clear?!
Yes, Chef!
[beak…beak…beak…]
from feed wave curl tares.
--Douglas Blake Olds, November 18, 2025
Peeing into wind—thank you, mr. derrida.
No more call for expertise or diligence,
just redlines of tautegoric flair:
perspective, privilege, protocol—
all normed by purchasing power's parity skewed by willingness to pay.
Performative immediacy thrones,
pragmatism peddled by Philistines to dolts
plantations of plenteous decadence
for rituals of phallic dilation.
The Logos—no longer Word that walks or calms—
only twitches in screenlight,
gooning to entropy’s wolf-fold system,
a grammar collapsing on cued program.
--Douglas Blake Olds, December 2, 2025
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