‘Let’s Sleep Outside’
And if I wail, will you catch my breath?
Cup it; twist the copper top, mason jar,
silent firefly—strobing S.O.S.
Can you hear me yet?
And what if I’m not a lonely star?
The night’s a crocheted blanket.
I am the light—
so don’t stitch the sky
…
(Full poem link in bio)
#photography #nature #flowers #photostr #poetry #proofofwork
‘My Mirror’
I kneel before you, red as a wound,
your petals peeling back like skin,
each fold a confession I cannot speak—
you bloom in the black,
a heart I’ve torn open
to see if it still beats
…
(Full poem link in bio)
#photography #poetry #nature #photostr #proofofwork
Hello spring! 🤍🤍🌸🌱
#photography #photostr #nature #proofofwork
I Wonder What She’ll Say
The sky blew open once,
fingers parting shudder clouds
slender beams through the kitchen window,
but the pane had slowly warped,
& I thought—this is how a body learns to kneel.
Cerulean spilled across vinyl tile
like warm milk in the right light
…
(Full poem link in bio)
#photostr #photography #nature #poetry #proofofwork
‘A Day’s Salvage’
…
Here, now, the sun carves you to gold leaf,
a figurehead against whitecaps
in relief—I sigh a soft violence
on your skin, creases blooming
into rivers and tidal pools as you smile—
that shimmer on your surface breaks the tension
…
(Full poem link in bio)
#photostr #photography #nature #poetry #proofofwork
‘Butcher’s Psalm’
Your call—
a wolf’s bay
cracking the sky’s
brittle skull,
splintering crystal coffins
I’ve mortared round my ribs
with a mute despair, too often.
That bellow’s a storm of sound,
clawing at raw hems of my flesh,
demanding I feel it,
demanding the fire grows.
…
(Full poem link in bio)
#photostr #photography #nature #poetry #proofofwork
‘A Budding Palate’
How do you catch the flavor of life?
In a jar, like strobing fireflies?
Lie down in the tall grass.
Draw it in deep.
Inhale with the sky,
as it presses down on your ribs.
Trace the constellations—
…
(Full poem link in bio)
#poetry #photography #nature #photostr #proofofwork
Here is why Bitcoin:
#Bitcoin’s adoption as a store of value (SoV) is deeply rooted in game theory, amplified by its interaction with Shannon entropy—the measure of uncertainty in a system. Miners, users, and node operators form a network where self-interest drives cooperation. Miners expend energy to secure the blockchain via proof-of-work (PoW), knowing that honest participation yields rewards while attacks (e.g., 51% attacks) are prohibitively costly. Shannon entropy applies here as Bitcoin reduces uncertainty in trust: participants don’t need to know each other’s intentions, yet the system aligns their incentives. This predictable outcome fosters adoption, as players see value in joining a stable, low-entropy network over risking chaos elsewhere.
Decentralized consensus complements this game-theoretic foundation by eliminating reliance on central authorities, further lowering systemic entropy. With no single point of control, Bitcoin’s rules are enforced by a global web of nodes, each verifying the blockchain independently. This setup creates a Nash equilibrium of sorts—deviating from the protocol (e.g., proposing invalid blocks) offers no advantage, as the majority rejects it. Adoption grows because users, from individuals to institutions, trust this resilient structure over centralized alternatives, where opacity and mismanagement increase uncertainty and risk.
Information theory, particularly through Shannon entropy, ties Bitcoin’s monetary policy to its adoption dynamics. A fixed supply of 21 million coins and transparent halving schedule minimize uncertainty about future value, contrasting with fiat systems where inflation is unpredictable. In game-theoretic terms, this clarity acts as a dominant strategy for savers: holding Bitcoin reduces exposure to entropy introduced by central banks’ arbitrary decisions. As more players recognize this advantage, adoption accelerates, reinforcing Bitcoin’s network effect—each new user lowers perceived risk and entropy for others.
Layered platform adoption enhances Bitcoin’s game-theoretic appeal by balancing security and usability, driving broader participation. Layer 1 ensures scarcity and immutability, appealing to long-term holders, while Layer 2 (e.g., Lightning Network and others) enables scalable transactions, attracting everyday users. This duality creates a positive-sum game: early adopters benefit from rising value, while latecomers still gain utility. Shannon entropy decreases as the system becomes more predictable—users know Bitcoin can evolve without sacrificing its core principles, encouraging entry over exit.
In conclusion, Bitcoin’s game theory of adoption, viewed through Shannon entropy, reveals a system engineered for growth and stability. Miners secure it, nodes decentralize it, and its transparent rules reduce monetary uncertainty, all aligning self-interest with collective benefit. Layered scalability ensures accessibility, lowering barriers to entry while maintaining low entropy. As adoption spreads, Bitcoin’s network becomes harder to disrupt, creating a self-reinforcing cycle. In a world of high-entropy financial systems, Bitcoin’s design offers a compelling, predictable alternative, making it the ultimate SoV.
(Entropy is heat loss or energy wasted. In economic terms, that means less wealth or more wasted capital and labor.)
Gm from Inverness 🐏
#photography #photostr
‘Kilotons in a Flash’
Weightless, but I’m sinking,
a soft feather, and it’s windless,
save the undertow of your breath
pulling me to your chest.
Organ music on Sunday morning—
and it feels like the beginning
of mass as I fall, kneeling
…
(Full poem link in bio)
#poetry #photography #nature #photostr #proofofwork
‘Counting’
The copse looms,
a gang-up,
tangled limbs,
clawing gnarled branches
that bruise the sky to regal violet
as they weep sap
and drop their leaves to the brush.
Kindling
& there, in that pile
I’m crushed
against you,
your ribs grinding into me
…
(Full poem 🔗 in bio)
#photography #photostr #proofofwork #poetry #nature
‘Renaissance’
I’ve been canvassing
all your lonely nerve endings,
tying loose beginnings
into slip knots,
synching sensations
from oughts
to a taut progression
of cause and effect.
And you’re affected
by my affect—
a simple smirk,
a jaunty step,
sends you into a spin
of choreography,
all predetermined.
So I catch you
every time,
bring a rise,
leaven loaf,
recipe of heat
and yeast—
pumpernickel,
but I’m broke
and empty.
Hungry and praying
to break bread,
last supper before bed,
or in the sheets like da Vinci
on a bit of canvas.
And you moan
over deep house
from Ibiza,
in a romance language,
but I pardon your French
with a kiss.
-N&A
‘A Case for Mondays’
I try my best
to push time through my pen,
working through phrases
in my driveway
outside my place,
hungry and afraid
to pull the handle.
If I collapse into my couch,
watching Scandal
or some other neutered Netflix series
passing itself off as intellectual
with covert political intentions,
I’ll never be mentioned
in a sentence
with art.
I do feel stolen from—
minutes mugged,
so I lock the driver’s side
and glance between mirrors.
Seeing nothing but my face,
I put the car in neutral,
rolling back
down the hill
and over the sidewalk.
Lost,
another series
going nowhere.
Praying for a T-bone,
I hit the brakes,
screaming in Soprano—
mistakes and mishaps—
and the scene goes black.
It’s red meat on Monday,
and my lady waits.
We don’t watch TV
anymore—it’s not in vogue.
We don’t read magazines—
coffee table propaganda.
We break stanzas,
sharing this pen,
dripping ink
like a Rorschach test,
and we find elephants
standing in the room with us.
Writing and rhyming,
reading between ivory tusks,
never forgetting
to waggle our trunks.
It’s an oasis,
and the world’s parched,
cracking lips
like risen starch,
and we don’t eat carbs
much
on Mondays.
That’s for Tuesdays,
when we eat baguette
and rewatch House of Cards
after I scribble in my car,
counting every hour
for the week to begin again.
-N&A
‘Mouthing words’
Two shadowy specters,
sharp lines of hollow
cast by the withered elm
outside my window,
where a rope swing once hung.
I remember when my lines snapped,
and the rubber rolled to the edge
of asphalt,
before autumn
filled it with dry leaves,
like a ball pit fit for squirrels.
And they never were
able to find acorns
in that empty center,
though they played
as if it didn’t matter.
The tree laughed at us both—
pursuing the lifeless
with precious little time left.
From our first breath,
even full-grown,
it began counting circles
till our deaths.
So I am writing in black ink
to commemorate those moonlight twigs,
waving archetypes across my wall.
I’ve grown up,
don’t need the shapes,
and woodland creatures share this warmth.
What’s a woodland if it can’t lose one?
Plus, I brought acorns,
and my hands cast kernels
over pulp,
as my fingers thorn
my heart for meaning.
Warm from the fire,
my silhouette presses
against the forest,
I wonder why, or
even if I’m a cliché.
Maybe I’m bad;
maybe, if you are,
you can’t ask.
-N&A
‘Ring Master’
The clementine sun dies,
and the sky turns Rouge Dior
on my lips.
I can’t breathe—
pachyderm sternum squatting,
trunk wrapped round my neck.
Couture scarves
hang in my closet,
but that elephant I’ll never forget.
Head underwater,
even in a shower,
makeup darting,
running bond tile,
on its way to the drain.
Dumbo-sized blunder,
letting go of prayers,
lonely hearting
to the still sky’ll
make wonder if you’re sane.
And it’s you I see
in the clouds,
big ears flapping.
I’m beguiled
by your elephant eyes,
long lashes batting.
And you’re in the waterfall with me,
fancy shower head spilling;
the sun’s from your mouth,
setting down your throat.
Red tongue, tangerine peeling,
returning my rouge.
Who needs lipstick
on a safari,
as juice drips from my skin?
You trumpet your arrival.
The king of the jungle
was never the lion.
So tell me the truth—
as you bury your dead,
pulling me in.
Remember what love is?
-N&A
‘What I Tell Myself’
The ideas I grapple,
a contest of strength—
Hercules and the lion,
Red Robin Hood’s cape.
It’s our stories defying
the swirling snakes
of our past—
helix in flask
of flesh and calcium.
It’s halcyon ink,
scrawled from the left
to your elbow,
as your head droops
and you see understanding
as the fluke it is.
Brass tips touch
where they shouldn’t—
against your parents,
even though
they died
on Christmas.
Criss-cross resurrection,
and the sermon is well,
nearly their complexion—
but a little less hell
than the plate flung
over the waterfall island,
granite chicly speckled.
And I never heckled
as I snuck behind sweaty backs
to grab an evening apple
and ponder knowledge
as I chewed arcs,
with juice running
down my cheeks
with the tears.
-N&A
Friday Pink 🩷
#photostr #photography #nature #flowers
‘The Fabric of Reality’
Between the clouds,
purple watercolors,
bleeding to dark
as the sun escapes
the moon and others.
Thrown-up stars
on the raw canvas,
or a stage curtain,
black and folded space,
and the gravity of a situation,
chasing canned food into bunkers,
manned by the rich and famous.
As “A-listers” fall to earth,
movies stop production.
How high can you rise
before apocalypse rains?
Do you go for the marks,
reciting lines
through your teeth,
carving a smile on my face,
extinction, the last of its kind?
Nails I scrape down your neck,
trail like comets
before impact,
throwing roots and rocks
from here to Mars,
panspermia from afar.
Summer’s on my nerves.
Winter’s etched my throat.
Spring coils my wrists.
Autumn stretches,
and it is the season for it to end,
so it can—
begin again.
Just give me your hand;
enjoy the show,
as the bedroom window sweats.
Swaddle me
with the space between.
Pull me in
to curvature,
as I spin and orbit
the remnants of earth,
cinching a Kuiper twin
just outside Jupiter.
It happens every time
I forget my past,
caught in your eyes,
cutting glass.
So we bleed
on the altar
of our mind,
knelt in prayer
or at least bedside bent,
pure hearts as one,
but who’s counting?
-N&A
‘Crystal Runners Down Your Cheek’
I don’t think we get power
from color.
I think it’s a hindrance;
roses bloom because it’s spring,
not because they’re red.
I slit your skin,
and contact with air flowers
the white meat,
and you curtsy
to the blood.
Bow before the cross,
Rosicrucian—
nails like stems,
grounded roots,
and a flute plays
a melancholy,
if nothing else.
I wish you would,
I really wish you’d flood
whatever I have left,
so that we could start
a starry and blurry
nursery of thought.
Worship every workplace—
every hue
a ricochet,
flown through a funnel
to some rear-seated lobe,
and it’s a trope.
We are all brains,
I hope.
It’s my closest plea,
programmed as we are
by media and algorithm,
by those that think they’re better—
and they aren’t.
