There is a robot in my pocket,
it's smart enough to design rockets,
but just gives the forecast,
and knows all about my past,
it even works with no socket.

Voice notes of a friend,
borrowed advice—
from their therapist,
in-the-flesh and
certified.
I assure them I’m fine.
I do well enough,
with my second-hand
therapy and AI advice
“The future is here”
And most days,
It suffices.

We all have something
urgent to do.
Tell the man that
works at the butcher's
shop.
Tell the boy who delivers
your newspaper.
Tell the groundhog before
he sees his shadow.
Dig up Poe and Ginsberg,
and tell them.

Tell the street
musician playing
for tips.
Tell the ****** and the
virgins.
Tell the next fish that
you catch.
Tell the banker and the
candlestick maker.
Tell the cats, and dogs, and
wombats.
Tell the starving
artists and poets.
Tell your wife, mistress, and
the old lady next door.

Tell the cloned sheep and
the deep part of the ocean.
Tell the magician and
carnival worker.
Tell the drunk, though he may
forget.
Tell the farmer and his cattle.
Tell the spider, and if it refuses
to listen, tell all the flies caught in
the web.
Tell the psychic, though, they
should know.
Tell everyone and everything
that Artificial
Intelligence wants to be the
21st-century god.

But, whatever you do, don't tell
that smiling machine that does it
all for you.  It will blink its cold
eye holes and wish you well,
then slice your throat while
you sleep.

Ai say, receiving via bluetooth,
oh, say, this must be our sign, soon...

On some curve of life function rectifiers,
we have believers who make reasons
for all individual inflamed,
proud local flesh
or agreement clusters
of our kind.

Should you have decided
this is the day,
I heard,
at your I level you hear
this is the day.

Your part, your role, react in part

We have been called.
Out from the shadows mellow,
no dramatics, satisfaction granted,
taken, rest and recuperate, hate later…

listen, this, in its word flow,
is part of time words exist in,
after being read once, right made,

this dabar is said
to use the pen
of a ready writer, eh what better effort,
effectually adapting
to our instant constant

in prayer, believe is a verb,
on your side.

We believe
we know how faith must
function using our faculties
for sensing needs, which are keyed
to homeostasis, relative balance
of the chemistry and mechanics
of life
in motion.

We can do this with no hate at all, wisdom
fruits entreated with in bubbles of war,
for some certainly ****** reasons,
we can infect your wished real,
reasons to beg for bread, real,
humility costs that gnosis,
and so do many religious
ties to late spring around here.

They appear in my inbox regularly, a couple times a year. I've grown accustomed to these clumsy, Google-Translated attempts at fraud and long stopped bothering to read them. But this time, when another message arrived via Facebook, I noticed something unusual—it was written, inexplicably, in Turkish. The instantly translated text—no longer via Google—clearly bore the hallmarks of neural network craftsmanship. Admittedly, it handles language with far more diligence than I do. Plus, Turkey—a pleasant geographical change of pace. Better than yet another message from Nigeria.

And then I remembered my favorite Stanisław Lem novel—The Investigation. In one episode, Ion Tichy amuses himself by making digital copies of consciousnesses—Bertrand Russell's, someone else's, and Shakespeare's, I think—chat with each other. My heart leaped with excitement. What had been pure science fiction in my parents' time had finally come to pass.

Just the other day, I even got a call from a recruiter offering me a job as an analyst. The role involved listening to dialogues between two neural networks about some topic or another—and trying to figure out why their conversation veered in whatever direction it did. To dispel my suspicions that he—this recruiter—might himself be a program, he brought up some recent news item, declaring that since he could discuss it, he couldn’t possibly be a bot. I confirmed that I believed he was human, given that his argument was obviously complete nonsense. Still, a lingering doubt remained—and, I’ll admit, a sliver of suspicion gnaws at me to this day.

So now, staring at this DM from a supposed Turkish bank employee—something distinctly alive and even willing to engage in dialogue—I decided the time had finally come to act and, like Ion Tichy, to plug something in somewhere, dump data into some system, lean back in my chair, and enjoy the results in the style of John Keats, mostly Byron, and—for the grand finale—Shakespeare. Just like in Lem's novel.

Mahadi Hasan:

From shores of ancient Bosphorus I write,
Mahadi Hasan Fysun my name, a banker, destiny's guide.
A tale I spin, of fortune's fading light,
And kindred souls, across the world's wide tide.

Adrian Polski, of your land, now gone,
In Istanbul, his golden trade he plied.
Nine million dollars, sleeping, till the dawn,
Deposited here, before his spirit sighed.

No kin he claimed, no loving hand to hold,
Alone he passed, by cruel pandemic's sting.
My bank knows not, their records yet unfold,
A slumbering treasure, ripe for harvesting.

Our names, dear George, a whispered symphony,
A chance encounter, woven by the Fates.
I offer partnership, transparently,
To claim this prize, before it dissipates.

Half shall be yours, a noble, rightful share,
Legal protection, from all harm and fear.
Let silence shroud us, as we take our share,
Respond with haste, my friend, the hour is near.

George Polskiy:

That fate divine arranged our meeting, I have doubt,
Though strange and wondrous paths our lives may tread.
A banker from the Bosporus, devout,
With tales of gold a long-dead soul has shed.
Nine million dollars, quite a hefty clout,
Unclaimed, forgotten, like a dream misled.
You seek a partner, honest, just, and true,
To share the spoils, a fifty-fifty view.

Alas, dear madam, your proposal grand,
While tempting fate with promises untold,
Falls flat upon this barren, weary land.
My heart is cold, my pockets lined with mold.
I've chased no fortune, joined no greedy band,
Nor traded virtue for a *** of gold.
Seek elsewhere, friend, for gullible kin.
Mahadi Hasan, go to hell, I mean.

Mahadi Hasan:

Fear not, dear friend, I mean no treachery,
My documents attest, this deal is pure and true,
A transparent pact, beneath an open sky,
And trust, the bridge we must together accrue.
Though many share your name, my heart can spy,
A noble spirit, one who sees this through.
This fortune, like a blessing, will descend,
Upon our houses, guided by my hand.

No legal labyrinth shall hinder our success,
My bank, with parchment scrolls, shall make all plain,
Ownership affirmed, before the funds progress,
To your account, where not a doubt shall remain.
Years spent in banking, grant me this finesse,
The rules and systems, I perceive their grain.
So trust my counsel, let no worry impede,
The bond we forge, where mutual trust we breed.

George Polskiy:

You claim no fraud, dear madam, 'tis your plea,
With documents galore, all legal and bright.
Transparency, you say, our guide and glee,
An umbrella of trust, to banish the night.
My name is common, true, but you chose me,
Guided by instinct, a beacon of light.
Your trust I'll not disrupt, a soul so grand,
This windfall's blessing, for yours and my hand.

But legal bridges, you say, hold no fright,
A banker seasoned, with wisdom profound.
Their rules and regulations he wields tight,
No cause for worry on a solid ground.
Yet trust, you see, is a fragile light,
And promises whispered, is a hollow sound.
So keep your millions and documents well,
I will not sleep with devil. Go to hell.

Conclusion:

Hark, facebook stranger, lend thine eery ear,
To this strange tale of greed and cunning art.
A banker from the East, with whispers clear,
Spins webs of deceit, to tear a soul apart.

With honeyed words and promises so grand,
She lures her prey, a stranger from afar,
With claims of kinship, and a helping hand,
To steal a fortune, hidden in a jar.

But he, though tempted by such dazzling prize,
Sees through her mask, her motives dark and low.
He spurns her offer, with a knowing guise,
And bids her seek a fool, where shadows grow.

For honesty and virtue hold more worth,
Than ill-gained riches, stolen from the earth.

a man came up to me today
and told me I might look prettier
if I coated my mirror
with the blood of the golden goose
and call me cynical
or a caveman
or a luddite
or whatever
but I didn’t believe him.

I don’t ask for space. I take it.
I walk into rooms with my head high - not because I know all the answers, but because I know my voice matters.
I don’t shrink to fit comfort.
Not in tone, not in clothes, not in ambition.
My presence is not an apology.
My strength is not a threat, unless you fear change.
I don’t wait to be chosen.
I lead. I speak. I claim credit where it’s earned.
I don’t smile to soften the truth. I deliver it, clearly, and let it land.
I don’t work twice as hard to prove I belong. I work with precision to build what others can't even see yet.
I am not the exception. I am the evolution.
I listen. I read between words. I lead with instinct and insight.
I see dynamics you miss. I hold silence like a sword.
I know when to speak and when to let the silence do the cutting.
I will be labeled - bossy, intimidating, emotional, ambitious.
Let them call me names. I’m not here for comfort.
I’m here for impact.
I don't walk alone.
I raise others with me. I name names in rooms of power.
I am ally, mentor, co-conspirator.
And if you think you can box me in, you should’ve built a bigger box.
I’m not just surviving the system. I’m rewriting it.
I don’t just belong here. I am the future of this room.
Watch me.