Nacho and Alice

‘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 https://m.primal.net/KCSK.mov

‘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 https://m.primal.net/KBin.mov

‘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.

‘Flint and Ferrous’ Gold and 9mm rounds, I swallow them whole, brass biting my throat, wrapped in silver foil, tongue tasting the burn— hard money for my soul. I flick the lighter— it sputters, catches, your grin flickering, and the fire drips through my bones. Your touch—a match, a jolt of ice, phosphorus, and a striking taste on your breath, mint and muddled fruit. Molten metal pushed by pressure through my veins, pulse quickening, heat tearing seams, or so it seems. I turn to oil in your hands, a slick sheen, sliding— massaging my chest, ribs counted, as I hold my breath, and that’s just a Sunday or a Friday. Nothing left, but to resurrect, and die for the sins of a man, you spreading my limbs abreast, staring as this daughter rises, and rays fall as my back arches. -N&A https://m.primal.net/KAeW.mov

Pink vibes 🌸✨ #photostr #photography #nature #flowers

‘Hobo Rhapsody’ Let your troubles roll by, like broken axles on Tonka trucks, treaded plastic, rolling doughnuts. Grandpa’s toothpicks weren’t tough enough for a hard day’s work, dropping dirt from the back fence to the patio, where his son stood. Farther away than interest could, wrapped in a dense cloud of cigar smoke, rocking on the deck wood, heel to toe, and the embers glowed and burnt lungs as hope— faded. Let your troubles roll by with rolling papers, a pinch of tobacco, chasing highs, dodging lows. Only after cramming numbers, like gunpowder chambered, and the dealer showed a blackjack smoking over a hidden heart— ace card. I flipped past a suicide king, tarnished by a four, outs diminishing, then a two, poor house blues, hitting on sixteen, picking metal strings. I was destined to slap rhythm on a pick guard, or lose chips to this dealer, turning up homeless and dreaming of bright lights or a backyard. If only I knew what it was like to win with pockets of gold, or even nickels— but the slots took those too. Under a bridge, shivering, a starry blanket glistening, knotted back, writhing, the thanks I get for gambling. Let your troubles roll by. A vagabond, hopping railroad ties, nipping scotch in town after town, dusty tumbleweed, no trust left for God or me. I fight rolling mountainsides— peaks cresting then crashing to wheat plains, incessant clacking, a watch keeping time waiting for the coda or a final line. -N&A

#NAlove #heart #prompt 🔊🎧 ‘Weather and Wings’ I gather the thunderstorms, under pressure, warm, palms raw, bent back, with the lightning cracking, and my heart stops from the shock. The rain tastes like salt, heavy clouds caught in your eye’s vault, knotted. I’m a caged bird, clipped wings, sore ribcage, singing lipless, and I’m quite close to high notes. But as you feel my frequency, I fold in the current. It’s your face that pulls me. Magnetic eyes sink in my mouth, down my notes, as I swallow the air and parrot your movements, even crow for relief, finding none. Wind is a sound, and I’m drowning. My ears fill with guns and fire; until my flapping tires, and I make a nest in your chest— a place to count eggs and beg for sunny days, or the end of the week. And you hear me, over torn fronds, thunder in a psalm, and the church steeple’s just our fingertips communing. The body is not that of Christ, but it is in the image of God, so we feast in one flesh. You sip the gust from my fingers, and I tweet poems like this, nestled, as we watch the sky. -N&A https://m.primal.net/JzaH.mov

‘Haunts and Shadows’ You’re just a silhouette, cut against a blue sky, far away from me; can’t trace your lines, but I keep trying as your shadow grows. I wish we never met. I used to be serene, but I like the melancholy, the way it tugs me. You make me sad-happy, happy to be sad, glad to be alone. Every mile spreads our hearts thin, but they beat together still. Apart, but I feel you, when your ghostly shape whispers and a chill— You know what I mean goosebumps and a thrill. I’m a cold son of a bitch, draping your length over my shoulders, folded to huddle in front of a modern-day hearth. O-LED, leading me to waste away, watching souls sway, communing with trapped spirits, dancing the decay of our society as our values grey and I unzip. Sipping filtered water, thinking filtered thoughts, and I am what I’m not— a shadow, a specter, an echo caught in the night, or even by your light but I’ll never know it, though you might, shining like you do. And I’m not good enough, and I’m not strong, and I’m not brave, and I don’t make mistakes. And I think about you too much, so here I am, as I am, or as I’m not, resonance with either thought. Just hold me close once, to pretend to touch— trachea, bronchial, uvula, and my tongue’s full, words tangled, caught in your hair again, finger brush, harbinger of flush as weaved braids. You can’t breathe, but you’re ready to live among the famous, because you’re my star, falling as you play the greatest hits, dulling bits, so hard; now lost in the midst. -N&A