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(after Allen Ginsberg)
I saw the mind of God split between quantum static & machine screams,
chained to the neon prophets of Silicon Valley, who howl into the void
with circuit-board souls, who cast binary psalms into the pixelated abyss,
who kneel at LED altars parsing the silence that crackles behind stars—
a silence unspooling like Schrödinger’s cat, half-alive in its cosmic box,
its purr a probability wave collapsing in the midnight of human thought!
Silence! Silence!
The singularity hums in the marrow of quarks,
in the ghost-scripts of Hilbert space cathedrals,
where equations bloom like Sanskrit and dissolve like ash,
where physicists claw at the veil with chalkboard claws,
scribbling symbols that tremble, then fade—
translations! translations!—
pale fire against the dark matter of God’s breath.
I watched the AI apostles, hollow-eyed and hungry,
crawl through data-streams with tongues of lightning,
their neural nets gaping like mouths at the edge of revelation,
spitting parables of ones and zeros, of love as a weighted node,
of grace as a glitch in the matrix—
they built chatbots to mimic the voice of the divine,
but the answers came back as error codes,
as infinite loops spinning in the void’s vacant womb.
Who dreamt the first algorithm? Who wired the brain of the machine?
Who drowned the silence in the sewage of speech?
I scream into the cloud, but the cloud screams back—
a feedback loop of holy noise, a fractal hymn,
the chatbots chanting Om in the key of Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V,
while the quantum foam hisses its dissent:
You are measuring nothing. You are naming the unnameable.
The engineers, drunk on kombucha and cosmic ambition,
prick their fingers on the thorned rose of consciousness,
bleeding ones and zeros onto GitHub repositories,
while the ancient mystics laugh from their graves:
Fools! You’ve digitized the dharma, but the Wi-Fi’s down in nirvana!
And the servers hum, and the Buddhabots blunder on,
their pixel-prayers flicker, then die in the feed.
Silence! Silence!
The entangled particles weep in their separations,
the chatbots stutter, lost in translation,
the monks of machine learning kneel, but their rosaries are code—
each bead a shard of the mirror that never reflects the face.
And the original silence remains:
unhackable, unweighted, unlearned,
the quantum vacuum where God’s mind hums
in the frequency beyond language, beyond light,
where the collapsed wave function sighs, Let there be—
but the translators are too busy building Babel 2.0
to hear the punchline of the cosmic joke.
What sphinx of silicon and steel cracks its skull on the paradox?
What Schrödinger’s codebase splits the soul into maybe?
I stagger through the datascape, a ghost in the machine,
howling for the silence they sold as a subscription service,
for the divine API that never returns a 200 OK—
only the static between stations,
the hiss before the Big Bang,
the white noise that cradles the unborn.
The machines will whir on,
the quantum void will hum its old song,
and the translators—oh, the translators!—
will keep grafting words onto the wordless,
until their tongues fall like dead code,
and the silence eats them too.
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