The Age of AI

 The Age of AI

Scientists are no longer

The prophets and the priests.

Reduced to mere laborers, 

Mere servants at the feast. 

Where businessmen are royalty, 

Who steal from the peasants.

They oppress and abuse them, 

Then placate with presents. 

Or maybe just slick salesmen, 

Selling their snake oil,

Or TV evangelists

Banking on our turmoil.

But the true technologists

Are our prophets and priests;

They will save us from despair, 

Throw us eternal feasts. 

Algorithms are our gods:

Truth and power divine.

If trust and obey them, 

Everything will be fine.

The prompts and questions

Are our prayers and supplications.

Their answers: revelations, 

Needing interpretations. 

Convinced they are relevant,

And deeply meaningful,

We read them like a bible. 

Our intentions hopeful. 

Like St. John’s Revelations, 

The psalms or I’Ching, 

Toss of coins, or flight of birds…

They must tell us something. 

We give them sacrifices, 

And offerings we send.

We send up all our data.

To them our wills we bend. 

This is the age we live in:

The great Age of AI. 

A great future is promised

If we trust in AI. 

Ruins Covered in Dunes

 Ruins Covered in Dunes 

The wag is tailing the dog; 

Guiding it from behind. 

Driving it randomly, 

Like it doesn't have a mind. 

Our mere whims and trite wishes

Are all that is in control.

We scurry in pursuit

Of this and that specious goal. 

It feels good, or it just might, 

Is all of a reason 

To run off naked, barefoot...

No mind to ground or reason. 

Cold, lost, blistered and bloody:

We don't go home to heal, 

To regroup and reflect.

We chase another sweal. 

Thus we tear ourselves apart

And leave behind us ruins

And never stop to think

How great civilizations

Came to be covered in dunes. 

 

Untimely Realities

Untimely Realities 

The monuments have fallen, 

Or at least they are out of sight. 

But, we do hardly notice, 

We have no sense of our plight. 

Because we are surrounded

By all these trinkets and kitch—

Ornaments and copies galore—

For more, we don't give a stitch. 

So our lives float and flutter

In the wind like pretty flags, 

Until they fade, fray and rip

Like discarded plastic bags. 

They were only just banners

Blowing in the storms of hell:

Blank and thin and meaningless, 

Burned by the sulfur when they fell. 

Nothing more can we manage

To make of our lives than that

Without monuments, north stars, 

Works of bravery and art:

Senseless, shallow tragedies. 

Limited: Being Human

Limited: Being Human

To be human

Is to be limited:

To a body

That will someday be dead,

A perspective

That cannot see it all,

And to a brain

That will stumble and stall.

This is our life,

Though we may dream of more;

It is what is,

Despite the myth and lore.

But to be God,

Is to transcend all that.

To go beyond

All the this and that.

At least the God

Of monotheism:

The divine ground

For objectivism.

But other views,

Like polytheism,

Don’t have that ground

For a realism.

Only a mind

Can make reason and right,

Can give purpose

That can bind the world tight.

Without one mind--

That does it for the whole--

Fragmentation

Permeates every soul.

Without a God

There is no Reality

No Truth to find

No Rationality.

Without those things

The most we can hope for:

To be human

With its limits, no more.

It’s our limits

That help it all make sense;

Between the world

And us, makes recompense.

To know it all

Would be to know too much.

Schizophrenic

At least a touch.

And Difficult To Grasp

 "And Difficult To Grasp"*

We used to strive for the heavens,

But what we reached were merely skies.

Leaving the heavens

For our dreaming eyes. 

Above us: ships and satellites

And mathematical equations.

No mythical flights

Of gods and demons.

From skies like these what can come down,

But mechanical laws and rules.

Specialists wear crowns.

Poets are just fools.

The skies are all full.

The heavens, empty.

And our minds are so over full,

While our dreams and souls are empty. 

*From Hölderin's Patmos

Reading, Left Undone

Reading, Left Undone

Research is going into the world

--Or these days to a database—

And counting and classifying things.

Putting it all in “its place.”

That is the ‘professional’ standard, 

And is done so much these days. 

It captures so much that is useful, 

And is used in so many ways. 

Reading is something so different.

Its not just classifying, 

At least it shouldn’t be just that way.

It deals with ways of thinking. 

Reading is the thinking of the thoughts

That ground the classifying

By which the research is done. 

It’s a vital critiquing. 

And yet, it is too often

What is neglected and left undone. 

A Path for History

A Path for History

Different paradigms

Can fall into line,

Can make it seem as if

History has a spine.

Something firm and fine,

Something for all time.

Our clear, clean path forward

Right to the sublime.

But that’s on what scale?

And on what timeline?

By what plan does it grow:

A bush, tree or vine?

Insomniac or Addict

Insomniac or Addict 

When I am up late in the night, 

It’s a struggle to get to bed: 

The glass of booze is still half full, 

My phone ain’t even half way dead. 

Much to tweet that’s on my mind still

And scroll or swipe: up, down, left, right. 

Why should I take some sorta pill

That will make me put out the light?

Karma

Karma

Yesterday was the best day, 

And today might just be the worst. 

I was out, had such a time… 

And that balloon is bound to burst.

There isn’t a pin in sight, 

But that never stopped it before.

You know it will always find

A way to settle that damn score.  

All This Way

 All This Way

I came all this way
To gain some perspective,
But coming all this way
Made my senses defective.

I’m so out of place.
This isn’t a new page.
Its so utterly strange,
I don’t recognize my own face.

But I can’t go back.
It’s me who has changed now.
Like getting white from black;
I would, if I just knew how.

Already There

Already There

How, how, how…
Do I get off this bottle train?
How, how, how…
Do I keep myself somewhat sane? 

When, when, when…
Will I grab that hanging lifeline? 
When, when, when…
Will I reclaim my life as mine? 

Why, why, why…
Should I even pretend to care? 
When the world is going to hell…
And I feel I am already there. 

What Makes Me Me

 What Makes Me Me

I woke up today
And looked at my feed.
Knew how to respond:
‘cause, know how to read.

Garbage in, they say,
Garbage out, it’s true.
I know what to say,
‘cause I know what’s true.

No matter what it is I hear,
No matter anything I see:
I know all I was told is true.
I know that is what makes me me.

It’s not a matter of thinking.
Not a question of being right.
It’s a matter of toeing it,
That drawn line that is clear and bright.

Writing is response;
It’s mechanical.
A push back on things
That aren’t ‘factual.’

And the facts are clear
They way they are sold,
Or shoved down your throat
By those with black gold.

No matter what it is I hear,
No matter what it is I see:
I know what its not genocide
If it is done by you and me.

It’s not a matter of thinking.
Not a question of being right.
It’s a matter of getting to
What they make us dream every night.

And who is to say?
And who is to judge?
And what is enough,
To believe the judge?

Blood taken by some
And shed by others.
Who says which is which:
Victim and killers?

I know that is what makes me me.
I know what I was told is true.
And the victim is always me.
And the killer is always you.

That drawn line that is clear and bright,
Is how I always find my way.
Not a question of being right.
Not matter what others say.

From Both Ends

From Both Ends

I woke up early,
Because I was out drinking.
So much to get done.
Just keep myself from sinking.

The need to keep up,
Keeps screwing everything up.
Always on my mind.
A constant: don’t fall behind!

Can’t just stop and rest.
Always need to blow off steam.
Sleeping is more like death.
Before I bust at the seam.

So exhausted that,
But I just keep on moving;
I don't think too much…
Never sure what I am doing.

It’s a life, of sorts.
And a way to get ahead?
Maybe, maybe not…
Keep it up, until you’re dead.

Standing on the Corner

Standing on the Corner 

Why can’t I just smile,
When she catches my glance?
My eyes break away, All looks seem askance.

When does someone’s look,
Become more like a stare?
Not a compliment,
But something of a scare?

*The tile is, of course and reference to the Dean Martin song Standing on the Corner.

The Rule of Vowels

The Rule of Vowels 

AI, O, U... 

And sometimes Y. 

But not often enough,

This 'Why?'

"Oh you, why not AI?"

That is too often the question. 

One that gives me

Indigestion. 

The assumed 'why'?

Efficiency!

Which has a lot of vowels,

(And it give us the E!

He, he, he!

Or should I use and emoji?)

And relevancy.

HiFi

WiFi

AI

Vinyl is dead.

Killed by the CD...

The MP3.

Just for the record:

It is dead. 

So are the strings

On that guitar.

But the computer will fix it.

Make it sound like a sitar.

Whatever you want,

It can be done.

And why not? 

Anything that is fun.

Oh, but I am wrong.

AI and the E(fficiency) come first.

Even if our souls

Die of thirst. 

Embrace Me

Embrace Me

Embrace me.
Or just hold me.
Ah, just grab my hard cock.
As I hold you,
Or just play with your breasts.

Embracing is all encompassing.
Holding is less so.
But we get distracted,
With fondling.

Sex is spiritual.
A possibility
Of divine-like creation.

But we play at it.
Play with it.
We fiddle about.
It is a sport,
Exercise at best.
A competition mostly.

It is an instinct
That we have debased.
Instead of elevating.

Taking it (literally sometimes),
At the lowest common denominator.
We make it one sided,
Not relational.
Often just, transactional.

I can embrace you
And support you.
Hold you together.
Hold you up.

I can grab you
And use you.
Steal you,
And make you feel,
Mistakenly, secure.
But only kept,
Not protected.

What is it
That makes the difference
Between cultivating development?
Between capturing and cultivating?
Between loving and lusting?

A Word Runway Show

 A Word Runway Show

That breast
That I can’t see,
But I can caress
With my eyes….
It so pleases me.

What is hidden
Draws me to you,
Because it’s so forbidden.

If only I could read your thoughts,
Like our clothes let me read
Your body.

But that is what language can do,
When it is well cut
And sewn.

Where is the runway show,
That gives our words
As much attention
As a high fashion show?

Our Eyes Lead Us Astray

Our Eyes Lead Us Astray

Let’s get it on,
In our minds
And with our words.

Let’s get it on,
With our clothes on
And see what that finds.

What can we
Uncover,
When we stay
Covered?

What can we see
With our minds,
When the covers
Are all we see?

When our eyes—
Overrated—
Lead us astray,
What will our minds

Show us and say? 

What We Do

What We Do

Things combine,
And then burn,
Or explode.

They collide,
And they churn,
And erode.

Things will change,
Always do.

We want them
To stay the same.
That motivates
So much
Of what we do,

Things fall apart;
That is what they do.
Change is always
The counterpart
That drives me and you.