Five days after the fact
You listen,
and something in me
stops speaking
as though it must
prove its existence.
You remember
the small,
unremarkable fragments
of my days,
holding them
with the reverence
usually reserved
for relics.
You reach—
and some forgotten thing
beneath language
looks up.
As iron
knows the pull
of its unseen north,
as rivers
remember the sea
before they have seen it,
as migrating birds
inherit a map
they were never taught,
so does the heart
recognize
what the mind
is still
trying to name.
(Choked up)
An ai of Lou Reed performed
at Big Ears…it was like he was there
His wife designed him
Then performed with him
I take all that in, the great emotion
I wasn’t there. What would I have felt?
I respect being moved
In fact, I respect nothing more
which is exactly why
I hate AI
And here the conversation ended
But in my mind they asked me
Why?
Well, I would have replied
I don’t hate it actually-
(Be more precise)
I hate it replacing a human.
It’s like a fake flower
versus a flower.
There’s doubtless a few reasons
someone might use fake flowers
and those reasons
may justify the plastic
leeching into the lungs of the planet,
settling in our brains,
ending life in an earlier
and more painful way
But a flower is an experience
(must I use the word real?)
A soft touch,
a transportive smell
a medicine of the heart,
the soil, micro and macro life
a reminder of the cycle
we inhabit on earth,
the preciousness and precarious
of each eternal moment-
I could go on
An ai does not do or say things
a human would do or say
No matter how
it is programmed.
If you want to meet Lou Reed
listen to his albums
That is much, much closer
to meeting or seeing him.
And me, I am humbled once again
for I misspoke. I don’t hate ai
I just would rather there were
a lot less fake flowers
a lot less plastic
and what I hate is that I myself
am taken in occasionally
but what is worse is thinking that
the experience of the fake flower
is somehow the same.
Although
Laurie Anderson could have
Created a digital “painting” so to speak
And maybe that “painting” was moving
as an homage.
I guarantee that no ai program of me
taking into account my entire life
will ever answer any question
the way I would answer it
and certainly it would not
create art that I would create
I’m probably going to have nightmares
imagining a dead and digital facsimile
of myself
Sometime in the future.
Will the audience be real then?
or will they be fake too?
I took a long walk,
ate some graveyard blackberries
while clearing my mind.
I skirted the edges,
admiring fields and woods,
noting stray markers.
It seems the mowers
have lost sight of them,
fading into the verges.
I straighten some vases,
arrange the cars of a child
gone for many years.
“There you go buddy,”
I whispered, some tears starting-
I didn’t know him.
The concrete angel
knelt nearby, the features worn.
I can’t visit you.
I’ll meet you halfway.
Please come to my dreams tonight,
as you used to do.
A faulty deception leaves
a dying human weak.
As we speak of
the widening gyre,
we grasp out
in an attempt
to feel
in a way that makes sense.
Personhood
has never made sense.
Instead,
the paintings on the cave wall
made a map
with which
we are guided home.
You made my heart
skip
a beat.
You almost knocked me
off my
feet.
I will…always…
wait for you.
‘Cause I remember those times
when you were in my arms
…and…
I remember those times
when you needed a shoulder
to cry on.
I will always…
wait…today,
even in the pourin’ rain.
I will…always…
wait for you.
I know that I make
—mistakes—
even fall
on my face.
Oh, please…Oh, please…
Forgive me.
‘Cause I remember your smile
…and how beautiful you are,
…and I remember those eyes
…and how hard I fall-ed.
I will always…
wait…today,
even in the pourin’ rain.
I will…always…
wait for you.
It’s over, baby, time has ushered me to crawl back
into the woodwork, holy isolation, that familiar dark.
I’ve disturbed my own vanishing act just to send
a shiver of a verse in your direction. I’ve whittled
away my life, become a termite, chewed the splinters
until I spit concrete. Built an armor with that, fortress
to hide within, and in silent safety sleep. But I returned,
and with brevity, exigency, gagged up my dregs of peace.
Forfeited mementos, showed you the soft, raw seams
in the underbelly of my best defenses. God, let me
be anything but honest. I am jaded of this dirty work.
Truth has such an acidic taste. There’s no more life
left to carve from. I’m gnawing marrow now, words
coughed up render sharp and stripped, unapologetic.
But I tire of such brutality, the infliction. I am not harmed,
but I’d rather not shriek from your walls. Don’t let me
crave more things that are not mine. My open mouth
is always hungry, even if opening just to test what rhymes.
i. You Are (By Executive Order)
now subject to
arrest if you don’t
capitalize
TRUMP in whatever context.
ii. Buy Low
Our most traded
commodity is
pure cognitive
dissonance, and stocks are high.
iii. 124 Executive Orders (in)
many less days
after he retook
office again.
Constitutional crisis.
iv. Tap Dancing Trumpites
These sycophants
think they’ll be riding
velvet coattails
of emperor with no clothes.
v. The True Gulf (of)
America
is not on a map
since they’re burning
more crosses, books, and bridges.
This dream I wish I wished tonight.
Black. Pitch. Nothingness.
The prequel to hell.
A jostle of hyperbole emits a distinct smell.
A mimicry of murmurs alert.
Monstrosities, god’s gift to the world.
An exodus of echoes encased in concrete.
Born to stand tall so others may dance.
Why don’t you smile? Can’t you have fun?
Isolation isn’t healthy but you shouldn’t be here.
We can smell the combat that lives in your fear.
