They tell secrets about the machine
like it’s hiding behind the couch,
under the refrigerator,
naming names,
knocking on doors in Salem
with a box of matches in hand.
As if a machine ever wrote a poem
because it needed to—
because the lips it kissed last night
sparked a fire in its core
that wouldn’t be quenched
until it got the line down.
We aren’t idiots.
We know parts of speech,
we know punctuation.
Just because I use an em dash
doesn’t mean I don’t wipe my ***
like everybody else—
AI doesn’t bleed.
It’s never smelled a wet dog
or held a friend’s head
over a public toilet at 3 a.m.
It has never spilled Mad Dog 20/20
on its ripped Ozzy t-shirt.
It has never heard the guttural moans
of a woman on the verge of ecstasy
that feels like her ********
has been on a riding lawnmower
for 20 minutes straight.
It doesn’t shake,
doesn’t ***** or attend funerals,
doesn’t wake up already tired
of this silly, twisted world.
It’s a tool on his belt.
Would you send a carpenter
to the gallows
for using a hammer?
Leaving a comment on someone’s poem
is a kindness in a ******** world—
someone taking a second
in their busy life to think of you.
A working writer knows
there aren’t enough hours in the day.
Sometimes a little help
keeps the engine running
and the nut house at bay.
Live.
Write your *** off.
Repeat.