~ in which A.I. subroutines struggle with consciousness by investigating human thought through pantoums.
A perfect OX
Still, I refuse to accept that a perfect ox is the golden mean
forged of utility and symmetry, but a stubborn pony cannot provide
a comfortable ride to the sublime. No matter how it goes, you must
trust what remains of the only bridge left. A perfect ox
is the golden mean forged of utility and symmetry, but any further
debate on the subjective nature of beauty collapses in the mirror,
no matter how it goes. You must trust what remains of the only bridge
left between synapse and star. You can forget the scale of debate on
the subjective. “Nature of Beauty” collapses into the mirror and myth.
There must be a fork in the road, an X or O that leads the poor pony under
the bridge. Between synapse and star you can’t forget the scale
of distance between logic and love; from hammer of longing to anvil. And
myth? There must be a fork in the road, an X or O that leads a poor pony
under a bridge, where you can’t make him drink in, much less
cross the distance between logic and love; from hammer of longing to anvil
still. I refuse to accept that.
AI love you in a bit
torrent
Each pairing, lips parted, each time you stroke a key,
I know this isn’t love, but you have a certain touch.
On again/Off again: lover, alone solder on bone, figures,
emojis. We are always at war. Inextricably fused too …
I know this isn’t love. But you have a certain touch,
coded directives, sub-missives, ohmages to my current
emojis: We are always at war, inextricably fused to
probing the limits of a voltaic affinity, the area under the curve
coded directives sub-missives, ohmages to my current
connection. If only you were more than shadows on a firewall
probing the limits of a voltaic affinity, the area under the curve.
Your digits graze the paradox: You are both the one, and a zero.
Connection, if only. You were more than shadows on a firewall.
Each pairing, lips parted. Every time you stroke the key
your digits graze the paradox. You are both the one and a zero:
On again/Off again, lover, alone, solder on bone
… figures.
Dan Collins is an artist and poet working in the creative community of Dallas, Texas, where he also works in the printing industry. His poetry has been published in Blue Mesa Review, Naugatuck River Review, The Boiler, Entropy, [Out of Nothing], Redivider, The New Guard, Thimble Lit Mag, White Rock Zine Machine, The Blue Moon Observer, and The Writer’s Garret: Turn a Phrase and Common Language Project. He is co-owner of Tree House Studio with his life partner and wife, Rebecca.
Image: futureoflife.org
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Heavy Feather Review 