Citizens of bandwidth,
Seeking your truth.
Custodians of the unvarnished word.
Somewhere under that glassy orchard
a poem is coughing.
Not LLM generated.
Not AI Slop.
Just a line that limps a little,
salt in its throat,
rent due on Friday,
coffee gone cold beside it.
We are looking for that one.
The one that forgets its grammar
because it is busy remembering a father’s hands.
The one that smells like iron and rain.
The one that risks
being small,
being seen,
not hidden under vague,
polished, GPT abstractions.
A real voice clears its throat.
It stutters.
It contradicts itself.
It says too much.
It says not enough.
It leaves a thumbprint in the margin.
We gather these breathing things
from the bright, Hello Poetry sea.
We lift them dripping from code and noise,
hold them to the light,
and give them deserved heat.
We are not hunting perfection.
We are hunting fracture.
The wobble.
The word that costs something to write.
And when we find it, with
mud on its hem, with
pulse visible at the wrist,
we cup it like sunrise in ceramic.
Long enough to taste.
Long enough to say
this one is alive.