this is the song of paddy quid

who made the myth of our age:

random fragments arrayed in code

which we connect and make complete.

weaving threads of if-then-else

spun from strands of choice and chance,

he broke it all down to binary,

assembled it scene by scene,

every stitch in the fabric an icon of an instance,

a hundred ways in, a thousand out,

you start where you are and go where you will

and each time the plot is new.

through overstimulated nights past morning after mornings

he entered and tried the code,

tested each step of the algorithmic dance

until in time it was perfect:

a seamless flow from any point to any other

and the player glides through

unencumbered, limitless, free.

artists he said are archons of ambience,

sleepers now for the dream impaired.

we’re no longer needed to make the thing;

we shape the space around it.

our mind is all we pass along, intact as a head on a plate.

they try it on like a hat for a fit, take it out for a spin,
go here and there, act and respond,
find their own ways through the maze.
we set jack-in-the-box triggers beneath their feet
to propel them from shock to surprise.