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.
I feel less fearful of the future, knowing you exist in the world!