when a.i. is fed poetry

the options are limited.

inaccessible stream of consciousness,

woke to sore knuckle slog to salvation coffee

or inventive slithy toves impervious to algorithm.

right now, i have no idea where i’m going with this particular urgency;

no payday as the crow flies

but groping walkabout to try to wake the villagers

by breaking open some goddamn door.