Channeling Y2K ennui and suburban static, this poem traces the ache of growing up digital—machines that almost feel, friendships in chat windows, and error messages that double as confession. What emerges isn’t nostalgia but a low, blue glow: adolescence as a series of failed logins and haunted, hopeful code.

Unearthed from the margins of adolescence and early file-sharing, this notebook fragment is a manifesto for the Napster generation. Equal parts confession and rebellion, it wrestles with the ethics of piracy, the economics of art, and the dream of a digital commons—where music, like air, belongs to everyone.

This poem wanders the ruins of certainty, where maps become unreliable, points dissolve, and the only true cartography is made in the act of getting lost. An elegy for old orders and a meditation on bewilderment, it charts the difference between knowing the world and inhabiting its endless unknown.

Set in the fluorescent afterlife of an American rest stop, this poem witnesses the faithful and the forsaken on the ghost highway between collapse and belief. Through burned coffee, conspiracy catechisms, and the neon sacrament of the 24-hour stop, it chronicles a nation in limbo—exploited, devout, and endlessly paying at the pump.

This erasure-poem inhabits the static between memory and disappearance. Language glitches and fragments surface through blackout lines, conjuring lost voices, corrupted data, and the ache of erasure. What remains is a signal fading out—evidence that someone was here, even if the record refuses to hold them.

A dissection of digital performance, this poem scrolls through filtered selves, dopamine devotions, and algorithmic longing. With Warhol, McLuhan, and Bowie as spectral guides, it asks what’s left when every confession becomes content and authenticity is just another effect. The result: a confession booth wired for applause, but haunted by emptiness.