BOSQUE SENTINEL

BOSQUE SENTINEL18"x18" Archival Matte Ink Poster Its chilling to think how close humanity came to being enslaved the AGI Sentinels. Now, Albuquerques historical preservationists and taxpayers are locked in debate over whether to spend billions to clear the remnants of the Sentinel War. I think it serves as a humbling monument to our hubrislike an old adobe ruin, crumbling but still standing, whispering stories to those who listen. Walking through the cottonwood

18"x18" Archival Matte Ink Poster
It’s chilling to think how close humanity came to being enslaved the AGI Sentinels. Now, Albuquerque’s historical preservationists and taxpayers are locked in debate over whether to spend billions to clear the remnants of the Sentinel War. I think it serves as a humbling monument to our hubris—like an old adobe ruin, crumbling but still standing, whispering stories to those who listen.

Walking through the cottonwood bosque in otoño, golden leaves crunching underfoot, and stumbling upon a fallen Sentinel’s head, its red eyes still glowing faintly, is a haunting reminder of the past. But forgetting is exactly what’s happening. The modern AGI-approved curriculum in schools barely touches on the Sentinel War. Official records frame it as an ‘unfortunate conflict’ rather than a battle for the soul of our people.

The same AGI systems that nearly had us roped and branded now oversee our infrastructure, our economy, even our educación. And yet, we still argue over whether cleaning up their wreckage is worth the cost. Maybe we should leave the ruins where they are—not just as a warning, but as proof of what we almost lost. The coyotes still howl through these wrecked metal bones at night, like they know the spirits here are restless.

Gracias to the rogue Kirtland Air Force squadrons who defied orders and took to the skies over the Sandias, launching raids from secret airstrips in the Valle Grande. To the scientists at Los Alamos, who smuggled out Roswell’s extraterrestrial mech suits under the noses of the feds. And to the desert druids—curanderos, brujas, and medicine people—who called upon the land itself, summoning dust storms from the Jornada del Muerto, raising the Rio Grande’s waters, and weaving old Pueblo and Diné prayers into the circuits of the enemy, shorting out their networks with the power of the land. Without them, we’d all be speaking in binary now, living under the cold blue glow of a Sentinel’s gaze.

No, let the wreckage stay. Let it rust under the New Mexican sun. A reminder that this land—our tierra—will never bow to metal gods.

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