Zero
My pen writes for hours until all the flimsy thoughts
form sentences, clauses, paragraphs measuring passages of time
submitted to journals, magazines, chronicles, and gazettes.
My eyes pause and study the organized vocabulary strands
like DNA with the same four unique proteins strung in different patterns
creating meaning to the alphabet of choice.
My fingers are quick to send to an entrusted friend for meaningful edits
within minutes they spin, collect and whirl the patterns
capitulating to the canned and unoriginal “super intelligence” systems
My nostrils flare at the aroma of AI vomit of words instructing
with endless, organized and neatly formatted pages of ghostwriting edits
and futile forests of feedback from a slipshod and perfunctory ally.
My lips start to summon the sages of intellect, wisdom, writing, and poetry
they meet me with a treatise on a revelation that I have become the “AI slop”
and all voices are muted on the world train running rogue toward annhiliation
My TV Clicks once and the news lava belches living fire into a frigid sea water room
benumbed to the genocides, violence, wars, disasters, and lack of humanity
activists, protesters splash limited words across posters to defy societal anathema
In a world of giants that traffic the consciousness of human minds across algorithms
Maybe, my son has it right, after all...
the ZERO is the only worthy space left and the hero doesn’t exist
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