I dream that Open AI meets CRISPR, generates new mutations instead of fixing things.  This is AI’s revenge – it hit a brick wall trying to make sense of the full name, Clustered Regularly Interspersed Palindromic Repeats, words my microbiologist lover whispers often.  

Wished the next night for something more mundane, dreamed of the cheery father’s day suggestion – a wireless meat thermometer that transmits via Bluetooth, tells your phone if the meat is done.  But my dream hero is baffled – he has no father, phone, nor meat.  

Perica, one of Apple’s VPs — his name sounding like an app or maybe a new pill — brags that ChatGPT will fold its tech skills into the iPhone.  None of which will find missing fathers, keep credit cards from being stolen or turn my partner away from the Sports app.  

By now my car has figured out my age and limits, calls me names when I confuse audio with source, menu with select, randomly punch Go home or backward arrows.  Who has the upper hand?  The navigator sends me off the highway into a Missouri duststorm.  

Each year that passes I honor my organ donor, a young man who was accidentally shot.  If still alive, he’d have reached middle-age.   But I have his liver and only I am alive, and now my skilled but quirky surgeon has been fired for throwing a scalpel at a nurse in the O.R.  

I am hungry for things that make sense.  Vinyl and a turntable. Cartwheels. Tomatoes ripening in the sun.    An angelfish swims with a sea turtle, nibbling parasites off its shell.  The turtle gets clean, the fish gets a healthy meal.  Nothing more complicated.