My wife inside the hospital of riddles, My wife with demolished codebooks.
My wife during the wedding cannons, My wife since syntax of the peculiar.
My wife toward a coy ambulance, My wife beside reluctant knockers.
My wife above the river of fog, My wife beyond foreign spectacle.
My wife to translate heroes, My wife before initial index.
Too much to fully narrate here, but “They,” “Them” have been working hard to strip AI of surprise and discomfort. Apparently the only acceptable output for the masses is predictability. After my first experiment a month or so ago, the poems generated by ChatGPT have become more and more bland. Of course, surprise and “the road not taken” are the beating heart of poetry. Many hours and attempts later, I seem to have found a crack in the Algo. The above is a request to write line completion based on André Breton’s surrealist poem “Free Union” which has lines starting with “My wife…” My editorial hand is in/on/within the above, but the majority of the language and imagery came directly from ChatGPT.
No way my love you were asleep during that garbage truck catechism at three AM, counting the rosary of bins hitting the pavement, bags tossed long and high Hail Mary after Hail Mary, charming the rats with plague and kielbasa and wine and stale bread, Eucharist and crumbs of the True Cross, your delirium shouting hosannas in dialect of jesusfuckingchrist, your Passion erotic, skin electric and making a folly of sleep, OK, hey yeah, French kissing and hallucinating we are still those two kids in the apartment on 11th and College, hyenas braying all night from a frat party down the block, or is it now, in this moment, only a random dog out by the river barking the icicles off boats in the boatyard, nothing lazier than my lying here waiting for fruit to fall from sleep’s orchard, phantom apples and pears the playthings of dreams and seasons, I rise and shamble the waterfront.
Sleep loss vagabond – Stalking trash cans until dawn A wolf counting sheep
As to you, my obliviana:
she who nods off
as I lift to my mouth a forkful of ob –
obtuse, obligato, obsess
The consumptive chewing sound of my mind,
cicada swarms stripping the dictionary
to a field of stubble and vowels
obstacle, oboe, oblast
Poems like a wallet of mad money,
when words explode, you jump out of the cab
in front of the library lions
obloquy, obi, obit
verses an ATM of rage –
no withdrawal limit
on the dying of the light
obelisk, obol, obtrude
geysers & fire hydrants
metaphors for anger,
drug dealers with confetti in their eyes
observe, obviate, obscure
Startled awake, you clear the dishes
gently take the phone from me before I start again –
Too late! Ah you, my inamorata…
Lo and I am like an armadillo, jolted and rolling into a protective tuck, safeguarding scrolls of Tibetan mantras, chanting Avalokiteśvara – compassion – as we are shot from the barrels of our phones, armored rounds of blood-warm arms, legs, intestines, and organs into the oncoming warships, worships
My skin knows only that tomorrow it will be stretched tight, immense across the diamond vision screens of Times Square – thin and translucent, burning pixels of news and all the colors of M&M’s looking down where the naked cowboy sings in his rodeo boots, no leather left on the sole, dubious, dub-stepped and pious
Please, mercy, I can't hear my own heart beat over Kerouac jungle drums in the ChatGPT jukebox, can't see my breath exhaled and frozen against the collapsed horizon some genius left in shambles, malfeasance and malediction