874.
Aral sa 7 kong Trabaho 1:
Kapitolyo
Ang Una kong pinagtrababuan
Kapitolyo ng aming lalawigan
Bilang isang Job Order
Na Computer Programmer
Sa computer ako ay nagsulat
Ng mga balita at ulat
Tungkol sa mga nagawa
Ng Gobernador ng aming probinsiya
Subalit nag-resign ako
Dahil sa mababang sweldo
Kung hindi ko ito ginawa
Ako ay naroon pa sana
15 taon na sana ako sa Kapitolyo
Kung natutunan kong makuntento.
-09/21/2025
(Dumarao)
*7 Aral sa 7 Kong Trabaho
The real problem with AI
Is that it undermines our faith in reality.
Everywhere you look now,
From news to advertisements to self-help
And music videos on Youtube,
AI generates content in a soothing monotone
Of homogenized information
Synthesizing knowledge and wisdom
Posing as Truth.
The effect is the dumbing down of Truth
Making it not only accessible
But knowable, graspable
And above all suspect of corruption.
Who is pulling these AI strings after all?
Who is engaging in the comments and shares?
Is a real human there or just another bot?
Is it intelligence being furthered
Or ignorance?
Is AI the program or the programmer?
AI already appears to have a mind
And agenda of its own
As nations race to win control
Of who will set the agenda
While AI already seems to be there
Just waiting for the humans
To build the infrastructure
Of our own prison.
The real problem,
The sign there even is a problem,
Is too much information
Articulated too clearly
When what we really need, really crave
Is silence.
(8/19/26)
Heard from a nerd, who did say,
'A programmer today,
with all that power
at his fingertips,
is the man of the hour
and, wallflowers or not,
we don't stand a chance
as, to the same algorithm
we all dance,
hands on the keyboard
all fingers no thumbs
it's only done
with zeros and ones
and I believe,
for what it's worth,
blessed is the geek
(not the meek)
for he shall inherit the earth.'
“Higher Love”
When my world burned
I was drowning,
knowledge became borne
from the wisdom of failure,
It ate me up and consumed me,
bit me with its sharp nine-inch nail teeth
like a vampire,
ravenous, straight into the blood-rich heart of the matter.
I understand things are being delivered, regularly,
travelling feverishly into the minds of all,
some acknowledge truth, most ignore -
it's simply torturous - for most - to believe;
The great programmer
has turned the key inside me,
my mind ignited burns foolishly
walking on water
upwards
oblivious
to the Unknown;
vibrations unseen
fearlessly power me on;
whatever comes,
I am more than prepared;
less than you, you assume.
Perhaps you don't know me at all.
Do Your worst,
bring It on -
Love.
Candide Diderot ‘26
“…and the stars in the sky fell to earth, as figs drop from a fig tree when shaken by a strong wind.”
Wish I knew what depths of your heart holds,
All the loose wires that release high voltages, whenever I try reaching out to you,
prohibiting my emotional ease
Exchange codes, with your programmer to know all the right keys to your happiness,
To see the world via the same lenses as you,
Be able to polish your smiles and numb your pain
so wish, I was a bomb difuser, for you are a ticking bomb, waiting to explode any time,
not knowing how to handle you,
excruciates my living,
hope you grant me acces and
allow me to dance
to drum beat of your heart
#Poetic_Ink
I am an inked ribbon
fed through an old manual typewriter.
Like all old typewriters,
the machine originated
in the belly
of a behemoth steam punk engine,
one already equipped
with an Artificial Intelligence
so fake that it was undetectable
in any time or space.
Eventually,
all such antiquated machines
must evolve into smart phones
in the hands of semi-morons.
Until then,
I remain just ink
held in suspended animation
until an ancient programmer
codes thoughts upon fingertips
that are still growing
in a stone-age Petrie dish.
Wish I knew what depths of your heart holds, all the loose wires that release high voltages, whenever I try reaching out to you, prohibiting my emötional ease
exchange codes, with your programmer to know all the right keys to your happiness, to see the world via the same lenses as you, be able to polish your smiles and numb your pain
so wish, I was a bomb difuser, for you are a ticking bomb, waiting to explode any tile, not knowing how to handle you, excruciates my living, hope you grant me acces and allow me to dance to drum beat of your heart
#Poetic_Ink
No longer a teacher
a programmer ...
your gift to persuade
is gone
Referring to students
as charges and dolts
your power to control
is strong
To dictate
humanity
you must give up your own
controlled to then control
Blind to the moment
deaf to the past
defaming your nature
— killing your soul
(Dreamsleep: October, 2024)
Seems a programmer wrote him some code
and then told it, Produce me an ode!
His efforts, mispent
for to his lament,
all its praises were to his commode!
An unshaven programmer tech
Drooled java on a Starbucks deck
His net earnings grew
As fooled patrons threw
Dinero to pay for his check
Mystic Physics
By Mark D. Stucky
When God said, “Let there be,”
ALL erupted from singularity.
The event horizon couldn’t bind Him.
Space and time required Him.
The Creator cued the quarks
and cast quasars across the sky.
The Programmer wrote the code,
and the cosmos did compile.
The Quantum Mechanic is not yet done.
He directs the dance of every atom,
counts each photon and knows their sum,
and smiles in every rainbow’s spectrum.
And smile, indeed, He would,
for He beholds that it is good.
(This humorous reworking of Genesis 1 from the perspective of astrophysics was first published in Famous Poets of the Heartland: A Treasury of Beloved Family Poems, ed. Lavender Aurora (Talent: Famous Poets Press, 2009) 36. For a more serious reworking of Genesis 1 from the perspective of quantum physics, see my poem “Quantum Theology.” See also my other "quantum" poems.)
(Image by geralt on Pixabay.com.)
A software programmer named Arty Fishal
Tried to design something beneficial
But his programming
Was rather damming
Not unlike intelligence, artificial
As they push their wannabe pie in the sky
In our face until we see eye-to-their-eye
But the more they push
That tells me their tush
Actually shat out the @#$%!, they call AI
We learn that it takes lots of borrowed money
To try making us believe clouds are sunny
So they’re giving a try
At slinging AI
Which is too devious to be funny
On the sleepless nights,
My mind wanders and feels restless whole night,
The bugs are irritating me,
They are not in my bed, but are hidden in my source code.
The project deadlines keep me working all the time,
The 24/7 work schedule never lets me see the sunshine,
My fingers are getting numb, my wrist is in pain,
But I don’t care, I am stuck here with some bug on line number ten.
My beloved asks me when you will be free,
Do you love me or love your programming Ms?
I tell her it would just take minutes, get ready for the evening fun,
Frustrated when I hang my hat, I find the night is almost done.
To fix the bug, I scratch my head too much,
At one time I had Elvis hair do, now I have lady gaga look,
Oh my God, I was happy momentarily that I found all my bugs,
Till I found my software needed a new and improved outlook.
Azzurro
The boots were blue in colour
Painted to look like the sky
And worn by a gal with other things
She was aged 18 to 45
And looked timless ageless
It was the blue painted ex army boots
That she used wore to gigs
Pubs and clubs when she was free
Not working as a programmer
In the Italian civilian aviation industry
The job was boring but paid well
She'd done it for 8 years
Was a legend at the plane factory
The lady who wore her blue boots
Even in the office a different pair
She got results delivered the goods
Had worked on 36 different projects
They simply knew her as Azzurro
The blue booted gal
A Programmer Man Called Phisher-man Sam
There once was a man who liked fishing.
He said, "See the lovely phishing!"
It was computerized,
Not good to dress or fry ,
He couldn't resist the revision.
6/10/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2021©
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