Welcome to the live channel.
Posts appear here as they’re released—raw, in sequence, no rewind. Prefer your static unfiltered? Stay on this frequency.
Want to follow the arc from ignition to aftermath? Step back to the beginning and walk the fireline in order. 🔥

  • The Monsters Were A Mercy

    Wrath & Reverb—Volume Up / Systems Down:
    The Hand That Feeds by Nine Inch Nails

    Francisco Goya, Disparate de miedo (Fearful folly), ca. 1816–19; public domain via NYPL.
    Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash. Francisco Goya, Disparate de miedo (Fearful folly), ca. 1816–19

    Let’s begin here:
    There was a time when we looked at the blood on the ground and said, something did this. Not someone. Something. A beast. A curse. A creature that slipped through the cracks of the world and feasted on the innocent. We made up stories because the truth was too unbearable:

    That it was us. That it was always us.

    We carved fangs into the face of cruelty and called it a vampire, because we couldn’t accept that a neighbor might feed off a child’s trust and leave nothing behind but silence. We howled at the moon and blamed the transformation, because it was easier than admitting some people don’t need full moons to become monsters—they just need permission. Or a locked door. Or a look the wrong way.

    Changelings? Demons? Witches?
    We needed them.
    Because what are you supposed to do with the knowing—that a child’s light can vanish, not by magic, but by the hands of someone who smiled at them that morning?

    The myths weren’t delusions.
    They were a shield. A mercy. A desperate reach for order in a world where horror wore human skin and walked upright.

    And now, in this late age of reason and rot, we pretend we’ve outgrown such tales. We have science. We have motive. We have names for the disorders and mugshots for the accused.

    But still—we look at the cruelty unfolding in the open, and we flinch.
    We still want it to be something else.
    We still whisper: That can’t be us. That’s not who we are.
    We reach, unconsciously, for fangs, for fur, for hoofprints—because the alternative is worse:

    That the monster is the mirror.
    That the thing we’re running from is human—and always has been.

    We used to invent monsters because the truth was too unbearable.
    Now, they invent monsters because the truth is too inconvenient.

    They tell us the danger is drag queen bingo.
    That queer teens are a contagion.
    That Black history is an infection.
    That librarians, teachers, and trans people are somehow the enemy.
    They give us demons in rainbow flags and call it defense.
    They burn books and call it protection.

    And while we were watching that theater, reaching for pitchforks and crosses,
    the real monsters walked through the front door.

    Not in shadows—but in spotlights.
    In fundraisers.
    In boardrooms.
    In statehouses stacked with Christian dominionists and corporate gold.
    In billionaires too bloated for guilt and too insulated for consequence.
    In the hands that sign the laws.
    In the courts that bless the burnings.

    They didn’t lie to protect you.
    They lied to protect themselves.
    And they are still lying.
    Every sermon.
    Every headline.
    Every flag waved above a silenced scream.

    The monsters they give you now aren’t meant to frighten.
    They’re meant to distract.
    To keep you chasing phantoms,
    burning witches that were never there,
    while the real ones—the ones in suits, uniforms, and branded hoodies—tighten the leash,
    build the gallows,
    and name it salvation.

    And when a real monster stands trial—
    when the mask slips and the blood’s still wet—
    they buy him a softer sentence.
    A press tour.
    A yacht.
    A rebrand.

    Cosby walked.
    R. Kelly still charts.
    Diddy bought time, not truth.
    Weinstein still rotting—but the system keeps reaching for a way out.
    Epstein died—but the doors stayed locked.
    The client list? Never existed.
    Just like justice.

    Because the laws were never written to stop them.
    They were written to stop you.
    To keep you hungry.
    To keep you afraid.
    To keep you convinced that the monster was in your mirror—
    not theirs.

    The monsters they feed you are a lie.
    The real ones don’t skulk.
    They sponsor.
    They govern.
    They host the fucking gala.

    So what do we do?

    We tear off their masks.
    We ruin the illusion.
    We say their names with the same fire they fear in courtrooms.
    We whisper the truth in places they thought were too dark to reach.
    We make their legacy rot before their body does.

    And we stop pretending they’re untouchable—
    because they only survive when we treat them like gods.
    But they’re just humans.
    Rotting, desperate humans.
    And it’s time the reckoning came for them.

    Because it doesn’t take the handiwork of the supernatural
    to make the worst thing imaginable.
    It’s been us all along.

    No summoning circle.
    No blood pact.
    No need to hail Satan or drink adrenochrome.

    Just a signature.
    A budget cut.
    A shrug from someone who’s never gone without.

    They don’t need to be evil in the way you were taught—
    they just need to lack a conscience.

    And they will take the wheelchair.
    They will take the food.
    They will take the last lifeline from a disabled child
    and still sleep soundly,
    wrapped in the illusion of “fiscal responsibility.”

    That’s the real horror.
    Not the beast in the woods.
    Not the demon in the dark.
    But the smiling human holding the pen
    And the system that teaches them—
    that this is normal.

    That this is necessary.

    That this is good.

  • No Return Visit

    Wrath & Reverb—Volume Up / Systems Down:
    Judith by Tool

    Photo by Daniel Obscura on Unsplash

    You were losing your faith.
    Not in a blaze, but slowly—question by question.
    You studied harder than they asked.
    You read beyond the 20 safe scriptures.
    And the deeper you read, the louder the questions got.

    But questions weren’t welcome.
    Especially not from people without a holy dick.
    Apparently the divine couldn’t speak through the wrong flesh.

    You could read better than half the men on stage—
    but you were never going to face the audience.
    Never going to lead.
    Never going to be more than support staff for the men with god between their legs.

    Everything was hateful.
    Everything was negative.
    Everything was bad.
    Especially sex.
    Especially women.
    They never shut up about it.
    It was constant.
    An obsession.

    You got kicked out young.
    Came back later—
    not for God,
    but because the man who hit you convinced you it was Jehovah’s will.

    “Stay. Forgive. Obey.”

    And you did.
    You made yourself small.
    You begged.
    You came back across the threshold like a leper asking to be let in.

    And they treated you like one.
    Like diseased mercy.

    You wondered what Jesus supposedly said about lepers.
    Because it sure as hell wasn’t what they were doing.

    You got older.
    You started seeing the patterns.
    The gossip. The backstabbing. The smug cruelty masquerading as concern.

    And then the outside world cracked the dome.
    The working world.
    People with no scripture, no shame, no obligation—
    and they treated you better than the congregation ever did.

    You started wondering:

    I can live forever with people who hate me for being a woman… or I can live now with people who actually know how to love—and don’t have anyone to snitch to?

    A real Sophie’s Choice.
    Not.

    You still couldn’t understand why God let that man touch you as a child.
    Why didn’t He stop it?
    Why didn’t He do what you would’ve done?

    You’d rip someone’s dick off and shove it down their throat if you saw that.
    But God? God did nothing.
    God isn’t a woman. He’s a coward. Or He’s not there.
    And if He is—fuck Him.

    So you folded in.
    Tried to make your way.
    Faded—just enough to pass.
    But not enough to disappear.
    You were still on their radar.

    You drift.
    Stop feeling what you’re supposed to.
    Mouth the words, but nothing stirs.
    Keep showing up while the soul quietly exits.

    There’s a word for that: PIMO.
    Physically In, Mentally Out.
    Sometimes you resign yourself to the punishment they promised.

    “You’ll never see your family again.”
    “You’ll die at Armageddon.”
    “You’ll be alone.”

    And for a while, you accept it like it’s fate.
    Because they gave you no blueprint for joy outside their gates.
    Because they taught you freedom was death.
    And fear is a damn good leash.

    Until one day—you don’t.
    And that’s when the real exile begins.

    And you’ll admit it:
    You blew up your life.
    And a couple other people’s, too.

    You’re not proud of that.
    You hate that it came to that.

    But you were desperate.
    And if there was still a narrow path back—
    you wanted to take C4 to it.
    Blow it sky high.
    Salt the rubble.

    Not because you thought you were brave.
    But because you needed it gone.
    You needed no return visit.

    But even after you leave, you don’t feel free.
    Because leaving doesn’t break the spell.
    It just means the illusion no longer needs to hold.

    You’re not being watched by God anymore.
    But you still act like you are.
    Like he might peek through the cracks to confirm your fall.

    They didn’t teach you hellfire.
    But you still learned to burn.
    In silence.
    In guilt.
    In every moment something went wrong and you wondered if this was your punishment.

    “This is what happens to apostates.”

    Because they warned you so well.
    So often.
    So vividly.
    That every danger they prophesied began to look like relief.

    They didn’t tell you the worst pain would come from loneliness.
    That they’d gut your ability to trust the world, then tear their world from under you.
    That they’d turn your isolation into a self-fulfilling prophecy—
    and when you spiraled, they’d hold it up like proof.

    See, kids. She didn’t love God enough.
    She wanted sin. Look where it got her.

    So you drank.
    You numbed.
    You chased the things they warned you about not because they were forbidden—
    but because they were the only things that didn’t sound like silence.

    And when you hit the bottom, they nodded.
    Smug.
    Satisfied.
    As if they hadn’t built the fall themselves.

    You avoided public spaces, or went late at night.
    Not because you feared confrontation—
    but because you hated the look in their eyes.
    Like they’d seen a demon in the flesh.
    Like you were an omen confirming everything they warned each other about.

    You weren’t their sin.
    You were their mirror.
    And they couldn’t stand the reflection.

    Sometimes it felt like being Moses parting the Red Sea—
    aisles opening wide in avoidance.
    Other times, it was like flicking on the lights and watching cockroaches scatter.
    And what burned the most wasn’t their faces.

    It was your shame.
    Rising. Immediate. Automatic.
    Planted so deep, it bloomed without watering.

    You hated that they still made you feel that.
    That even outside the gates, they could still reach in and pull guilt out of your chest like a puppet string.

    And maybe worst of all—
    they taught you how to forget them.
    To make them dead in your mind.
    Because as long as you didn’t see them, they couldn’t exist.
    As long as they stayed out of view, they were ghosts.
    Gone.
    Safer that way than seeing their backs.

    They made that easier than it should’ve been.
    People vanished with barely a word.
    Just sad looks and whispers: “She had a double life.”

    So you go quiet.
    Not because you’re ashamed—
    but because you’ve seen what they do with your name.

    You build a life on the outside—but never fully of it.
    You build walls.

    Not because you’re cold.
    But because now you know what it feels like to be stripped bare for someone else’s righteousness.

    You build a fortress.
    Not a cage.

    Because this time, the rules are yours.
    Because no one gets to tell your story but you.

    And maybe you still feel guilt.
    Still feel the flinch.
    Still dodge the words that once curled around your throat like commandments.

    But you’re not lost.
    You’re not broken.
    You’re just free enough now to choose:

    Who you are.
    In silence.
    Before they try to name it for you again.

    And maybe this fortress isn’t just a shelter.
    Maybe one day it becomes something else.
    A flare.
    A warning.
    A weapon.

    But not yet.
    First, you had to survive.

  • Lesson in Futility

    Wrath & Reverb—Volume Up / Systems Down:
    Street Spirit(Fade Out) by Radiohead

    Dirty hands
    Photo by Rob Griffin on Unsplash

    I don’t know if this was ever worth doing.
    Not just the site.
    The whole trying thing.

    Every word I write, I wonder who I’m echoing.
    Every image I post, I know it came from someone else’s hand.
    Even when I shape it—change it—make it feel like mine…
    It’s still born from the pile.
    From the machine.
    From the scrape.

    They’ve built it this way.
    So that anything we touch stains us.
    So that to speak, to share, to shape anything—
    you have to get your hands dirty.

    There is no clean act left.
    No pure voice.
    No untouched page.

    Just lesser forms of guilt.

    They say this is a new world.
    But I don’t want a world where expression is theft by default.
    Where to exist—to create—is to wonder
    what I’ve taken and what I’ve become by doing it.

    Maybe it’s all futile.
    Maybe that’s the point.
    Maybe futility is the only honest thing left.

    Still.
    Here I am.
    Hands soiled.
    Hating it.
    Naming it.

    And maybe—just for now—that’s enough.

  • You Still Deserve Better. That’s What They’re Afraid Of.

    Wrath & Reverb—Volume Up / Systems Down:
    Vampires by 10 years

    You Still Deserve Better

    You may not see it yet.
    Not on your street. Not in your circle.
    But it’s coming.

    And when it comes, it won’t start with boot prints on your lawn.
    It’ll start with someone you don’t really like.
    Someone “lazy,” “weird,” or just on the wrong side of things.

    A government worker you think is sucking off the system.
    Gone.
    A family down the road with a funny last name.
    Deported—because a paperwork change made them a threat.
    A liberal professor fired for saying something “divisive.”
    Applauded—because she was “poisoning the kids.”

    And you’ll say: “Serves them right.”
    Because it’s easy to say that when it’s not you.

    But then the cuts hit closer.

    The postal worker who never missed a day?
    Gone. Budget trimmed.

    Your neighbor’s son who signed up to work at the VA?
    Gone. “Redundancy.”

    And still, you’ll hear:
    “They were part of the problem. Not real jobs anyway.”

    You’ll keep saying that until it hits someone you know.
    Someone you’ve sat next to.
    Prayed with.
    Ate with.

    Someone who didn’t do anything wrong,
    but ended up in the wrong database,
    on the wrong list,
    flagged by a system no one elected
    and no one can explain.

    By then, they’ll have you trained to cheer for it.
    To see every job cut as “draining the swamp.”
    To see every silence as justice.
    To see every deportation, every lockout, every flagged account
    as a win.

    But here’s the sick truth:
    The system won’t hit you last.
    It’ll hit you after you’ve defended it long enough to make sure no one will stand up for you.

    They’re not afraid of your vote.
    They’re not afraid of your gun.
    They’re afraid you’ll finally realize—

    You still deserve better.
    And they built this whole machine to make sure you never ask for it again.

  • Cult of Purity

    Cult of Purity

    Wrath & Reverb—Volume Up / Systems Down:
    The Noose by A Perfect Circle

    I’ve watched every movement eat itself.
    Churches. Collectives. Faculty groups. Mutual aid pods. Political orgs.
    The names and slogans change. The endings don’t.

    They start with hunger for truth.
    They end in bloodless ritual.

    They start with a vision.
    They end with a purity test.

    Because what people want—
    more than justice, more than change—
    is to be seen as good.

    Not good as in kind.
    Not good as in accountable.
    But good like a mask.
    Good like a shield.
    Good like, “Don’t cancel me, I’ve memorized the catechism.”
    “I’ve sacrificed nuance for the right words.”
    “I’ve scrubbed myself clean in public.”

    But that kind of good?
    That good is a weapon.
    It makes monsters out of mistakes.
    Turns questions into heresy.
    Turns curiosity into exile.

    And so people go quiet.
    Not because they’ve changed their minds.
    But because they’ve learned:
    Silence is safer than stepping wrong.
    Absence is better than the gallows of group chat.

    I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.

    And no matter the flag they fly—
    no matter the scripture or the slogan—
    it circles back to this:

    Purity becomes currency.
    And those who won’t bankrupt themselves to perform it
    get vanished like a threat.

    What survives the purge isn’t clarity.
    It isn’t community.
    It’s the mad scramble to seize the pulpit.
    To seize the mic.
    To seize the gun.

    Power rushes in wearing whatever mask still fits—
    doctrine, party, scripture, flag.
    It doesn’t matter.

    Because when the goal is alignment,
    force becomes holy.
    Silence becomes obedience.
    And the old ghosts of control get new names.

  • Consume. Obey. Die.

    Consume. Obey. Die.

    Wrath & Reverb—Volume Up / Systems Down:
    Mr. MTV by Nothing More

    We didn’t vote for billionaires to leave the planet.
    We just bought batteries.
    And cheap shoes.
    And plastic bullshit made by kids who’ll never drink clean water again.
    And that was enough.

    That’s all it took.
    That’s the price of admission to the end of the world:
    free shipping, two-day delivery, one-click guilt.

    We didn’t know what we were building—
    until we looked up and saw rockets named after gods
    launching men with no souls into a sky they never earned.

    And while they chase immortality,
    we drown in the waste they left behind.

    We don’t buy because we need.
    We buy because we’re numb.
    We buy because we’re tired.
    We buy because the system tells us that if we just had the right thing, we’d finally feel whole.
    Whole enough to keep going.
    Whole enough to work the next shift.
    Whole enough to smile while everything falls apart.

    But it never works.
    Because the hunger isn’t material.
    It’s meaning.
    And no amount of next-day shipping can deliver that.

    So we fill the hole with garbage.
    And call it freedom.
    Call it choice.

    We don’t have choice.
    We have catalogs of distraction.

    ———

    And when the world started groaning under the weight of mass production, they sold us “artisanal.”
    They said: go handmade. Go small. Go local.
    And we did.

    But even that got eaten.

    Etsy was supposed to be a rebellion.
    A digital bazaar for things made by real hands.
    But it turned into another factory, just with better fonts.
    Another place where underpaid women sell their skill for the price of a novelty candle
    while the platform takes its cut and tells them to smile more.

    Craftsmanship died
    when it had to compete with the algorithm.

    You can’t knit faster than China.
    You can’t turn grief into profit margin.
    And when you try, you stop making art—
    you start making inventory.

    They ruined even that.

    ———

    They tell us we can buy our way into being good.
    Buy cruelty-free. Buy vegan. Buy local. Buy green.
    Buy the right tote bag. The right reusable cup. The right identity.

    But it’s all packaging.

    They don’t tell you your vegan leather is made of petroleum.
    That the cruelty just moved somewhere you can’t see.
    That your biodegradable packaging still ends up choking rivers on the other side of the globe.
    That your carbon offset was a marketing budget, not a solution.

    They sold us “green.”
    And we paid extra for it.
    And still the world burns.

    They said recycling would fix it.
    They didn’t mention most of it ends up in a landfill anyway—
    or shipped to countries already drowning in our trash.

    But they needed us to feel involved.
    So they gave us tasks.
    Little rituals to make us feel powerful.

    Sort your plastics.
    Skip the straw.
    Post the infographic.

    Meanwhile, they’re dumping oil into the ocean,
    and buying their own private islands.

    ———

    They blame us.

    They tell us to consume responsibly,
    while every aisle is lined with plastic.
    Every product is wrapped, sealed, bagged, labeled, barcoded.
    Single-serve everything, because that’s what efficiency demands.

    And even when you try to opt out—
    when you look for something better—
    you find out it’s three times the price, ships from a warehouse,
    and still arrives smothered in bubble wrap.

    There is no ethical consumption,
    but they’ll make sure you feel like the failure.

    They sold us the illusion of choice.
    And now they blame us for choosing wrong.

    You want to go zero-waste?
    Hope you have money. Hope you have time.
    Hope you live somewhere that gives a shit.

    Because if you’re poor, you don’t get to “shop better.”
    You don’t get bamboo toothbrushes and refill stations and cute sustainable swaps.
    You get bulk packs, corner stores, and what’s left at the end of the month.

    And then they tell you you are the reason the planet is dying.
    Because you bought what was available.
    Because you were tired.
    Because you were broke.

    They could invest in real solutions.
    They could rebuild infrastructure, clean water, public transit, sustainable systems.
    But they don’t.

    Because guilt is cheaper than change.
    And blaming you is easier than fixing anything.

    They want you broken enough to buy.
    But not so broken that you stop.

    So you carry the weight.
    Quietly.

    The guilt, the grief, the knowledge.
    That the world is bleeding and they sold you the bandage.

    But maybe—
    just maybe—
    a spark survives under all that ash.

    Not enough to save the world.

    Just enough to remember it was worth saving.

  • This Voice Was Not Approved

    This voice is not approved

    Wrath & Reverb—Volume Up \ Systems Down:
    Dear Mr. President by Four Non Blondes

    I wasn’t supposed to say anything.
    Not out loud. Not like this.

    I was taught to be polite.
    To work hard.
    To trust the process.
    To keep my head down and hope for the best.

    That if I stayed good, the system would be good to me.
    That if I stayed quiet, I’d be safe.

    But that was a lie.
    A lie passed down through sermons and staff meetings, DEI trainings and Sunday school.

    The left told me they cared.
    They passed out words like “justice” and “equity”
    while signing off on layoffs and salary freezes.

    The right told me they spoke for God.
    But their god wears a flag like armor
    and demands obedience, not mercy.

    The liberals gave me a seat at the table—
    but only if I kept quiet and smiled.

    The nationalists said they’d save me—
    if I agreed to worship their white Jesus
    and forget what they were doing to everyone else.

    And behind them both, laughing,
    stands the broligarchy:
    tech billionaires, hedge fund visionaries, crypto cowboys, data cultists.

    They don’t wave flags.
    They don’t kneel in pews.
    They snort metrics like coke
    and call it the future.

    They talk about freedom
    but they mean freedom from accountability.
    Freedom to extract. To surveil.
    To grind people down into profiles and purchase paths.

    They feed on our attention, our confusion, our exhaustion.
    They don’t need you to believe in them.
    They just need you to be too numb to resist.

    And the worst part?
    Both parties let them feast.

    We are on the cusp of authoritarianism with a user interface.
    Not boots and barbed wire—apps and backend dashboards.
    Not gulags—just deplatforming, blacklists, automated suspicion.

    They built the surveillance state together.
    Both sides.
    The left sold it as protection.
    The right sold it as patriotism.

    Now the eyes never close.
    And they tell you that if you’re not doing anything wrong, you have nothing to fear.
    While they decide what wrong means.

    They don’t want free speech.
    Not really.
    They want speech that flatters their tribe, their god, their donors, their branding.

    Free speech isn’t just a principle anymore.
    It’s a battleground.
    And everyone’s holding matches.

    They’ll distract you with war and reality TV.
    With plastic politics and consumer pacifiers.
    With endless scrolling and empty slogans.
    They’ll keep you just awake enough to argue.
    Just tired enough to give up.

    Listen to Kendrick.
    Turn the TV off.

    ———

    So what do I believe, then? After all this?
    After the fire and silence and the static?
    And the rage—the unbridled teeth-gnashing, breast-ripping rage?

    Well—I don’t believe in God.
    But I’ve read what Jesus said—
    and if you listen that dude and not the preachers,
    you hear something worth carrying.

    I believe the poor were never the problem.
    I believe the liars wear robes and run banks.
    I believe the women were always left out of the stories—
    except when they were bleeding, screaming, or being stoned.

    And I believe neither party wants anything to do with that Jesus.

    I’m from a place you can’t Google.
    A town where people still wave at each other,
    but the food bank line gets longer every month.
    Where the preachers get richer
    and the single moms get blamed.

    This space is not about safety.
    It’s about witness.

    It’s not about hope.
    It’s about remembrance.

    It’s not about being seen.
    It’s about refusing to let the silence write the story.

    I don’t care if you follow me.
    I don’t care if this gets shared.

    I care that someone out there
    might read this and whisper: “So it’s not just me.”

    This is not a brand.
    This is not therapy.
    This is not for the cameras.

    This is what’s left when the pretending stops.