I placed the picture in the book and gave it to the friar.

When he took it to the church, I lit the place on fire.

The constable who locked me up asked why did I conspire?

Because the picture tells me what to do.

That's why I lit the fire.

You listen to Spooked.

Stay tuned.

I don't. I'm not a painter, exactly, but I dabble with AI artificial intelligence painting programs, and with them, crazy as it sounds, I can make some passable work.

And should I say, I can direct the program to make some passable work.

You want Homer Simpson in the style of Baskiat?

I can do that.

Flying monkeys as if painted by Cazahn, no problem.

And then just last week, in the middle of the night, a notion plods me awake, a notion demanding,

I create a deck of tarot cards, a deck that's anchored by new manifestations of old gods.

I tell the idea to wait till morning, but the screen grows louder.

Until finally, I pull myself out of bed, sit down, and begin with the Orishas of Centauria

show themselves reflections of African spirits Ogun, Tango, Oshun, and I asked this computer program, this algorithm, to reimagine the gods that made their way to this world through the middle passage, through slaveholds, across oceans, gods that changed this new world and were changed by it.

Remake them.

Combine them. Remix them.

And I know, I know this is blasphemy of the highest order, but in a few seconds, in just a few seconds, the algorithm shows me the first completed

painting of my newly realized God.

I see a powerful face staring back at me defiantly, proudly.

...