We added the artisans first.
Then came the drudges working the assembly lines.
The farmers, or their laborers, at least, were also mixed in.
No one really wants to know how the sausage is made.
The computers were integrated.
Their astronaut wards processed beside them.
And now we've found a way
To dig up the artists, writers, musicians, and dancers, the builders and thinkers
And feed them to the corpse machine
We asked ChatGPT to write a poem called "Dead Labor"
And called it a "corpse machine."
It returned an awful poem:
Too declarative. No pulse. Generic and clichéd. No tension. Flatly moralistic.
Perhaps, if we feed it enough corpses, it will get better.
I fed myself to the corpse machine
And it returned a corpse.
alienation
I Don’t Want to Say Goodbye
I don’t want to say “goodbye.”
It’s nothing personal.
I don’t want to say “hello,” either.
I’d rather come and go
without the ceremonial recognition of
one another’s presence.
I don’t want to say “good morning,”
and “good night” seems especially grotesque.
Contractual obligation has crossed our paths,
but the meeting of minds sours when politesse
is expected to sweeten the duress.
I’d prefer not to nod my head–
whether up or down–
nor raise my brow in recognition
as we make our daily rounds.
I am intentional about my relationships.
I do not make friends with passersby.
There is a finite amount of air in the world.
I will share mine only when I choose.
Want
I wonder at times
what life might be like
if somebody cared about me
if there were someone I could call
whenever I’m crying
without being a burden
if there were someone I could invite
to a birthday
and expect them to show
I have been made
to feel I must beg
for companionship
I wonder at times
what life might be like
if I believed somebody cared about me
Gulf
“How's the woodworking going?”
James must be thinking of my brother
“It's alright,” I offer
Have you sold anything?
“No, nothing,” I say.
“It’s a hard business to break into. A lot of people don’t appreciate it.”
He tells me about a jewelry box he made that his daughter didn't want.
I have little patience for strangers.
I don't often care to disabuse them.
They call me the wrong name
I answer their questions
About things I haven't done.
I only have so much of myself
to give away.
I’ll ask the therapist on Wednesday,
“What's wrong with me? Why is it so hard to connect with others?”
It seems like there should be some kind of answer.
Something must have happened
To make me so alien
So haughty and undeserving of kinship
Strangers tell me happy birthday
And I am angry they know something about me
Dad asks me if I’m alright.
I very clearly am not. I have been trying to keep it together
So that no one will ask me what’s wrong.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t challenge the lie.
Minutes later I break the silence:
“Well,
I’m going home.”
Sophistry and Solipsism in the New Millennium 