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James Court May 2017
Hey Siri,
Which suits me better - the red, or the blue?

Hey Siri,
Where did I leave my keys?

Hey Siri,
Why doesn't she love me?

Hey Siri,
Who cares?

Hey Siri,
Did my housemate use my coffee mug?

Hey Siri,
Will I enjoy that new Woody Allen movie?

Hey Siri,
Do I look tired?

Hey Siri,
Am I crazy?

Hey Siri,
Do you think I'll ever truly be happy?

Hey Siri,
If you don't answer me, how will I know?
sara Mar 2019
hey siri
you're supposed to have all the answers aren't you?

hey siri
how can i be happy?

hey siri
why is nothing working?

hey siri
would it be better if i just wasn't here anymore?

hey siri
how would i go about doing that?

hey siri
how do i tell my friends i don't want to live anymore?

hey siri
how do i tell the people who gave me life that i no longer want it?

hey siri
how do i tell them i've written a note?

hey siri
how do i make sure there's no room for error?

hey siri
how do i say goodbye?
J B Moore Nov 2015
Letting his pome to Siri
Hopefully will make us 2.[period]
I got it matters what I say
Should probably change it anyway
Still out the 10 at home to Siri

I don't think contacts it should be
Around so cool be made out of me 
Still grumbling to choke 
So I don't waste too much rope
If anyone doesn't turn out too funny

After the person's coming
Bowman mentioned you running
Three more specific
It's more bulimic
Did everything go a plenty

Wonderwall things are
Fly high above All-Stars
Do you think that it's June,
That there Brazelton blue,
If they held and the press really hard?

So this is the phone from Siri
Not feeling quite weary
To Shay' pasta please process he,
Or just a foster for you' [apostrophe]? 
I guess we'll just have to see...

I'm writing this poem through Siri,
Hopefully it won't make us to teary,
I doubt it matters what I say,
she'll probably change it anyway,
Still I'll dictate my poem through Siri.

I don't think complex it should be,
Or else a fool will be made out of me
Still I'll grumble and I'll choke
So I don't raise too much hope
If in the end it doesn't turn out too funny.

After this verse it is coming
A poem that might send you running
Though to be more specific 
It's more of a limerick 
Than anything full of cunning.

I wonder where wild things are,
That fly high above all the stars?
Do you think that it's true,
That their face will turn blue,
If they held in their breath really hard?

So this is the poem from Siri
And now I'm feeling quite weary
For did I say 'pasta please',
Or just 'apostrophe'?
I guess we'll just have to ask Siri.

7/3/14
Swamy Downey and SIRI
Taking a stroll
Along the beach

SIRI said
No man is committed

Uh huh
Said Swamy Downey

Where can I find a committed man?
SIRI wondered aloud

Thus spake Swamy Downey
*Mental hospital
John F McCullagh Aug 2012
My smartphone got an upgrade,
now, between us, things are tense:
Siri, knowing she's superior,
has abandoned all pretense.

I asked Siri to hail a cab
when I was in New York
She told me I was getting fat,
and advised me I should walk.

Often Siri drops my calls
proclaiming I'm a bore.
(True, she's heard me tell that tale
a dozen times before.)

I wrote a "*** text" to my love
while walking in the park.
Siri sent it to my mother
and thought it quite the lark.

I bought this phone because her apps
are very useful things,
Now I live in constant dread
each time the **** thing rings.

My Smartphone got an upgrade
and, between us, things got terse,
but we're married by the contract
for better or for worse.

I should have bought an Android phone-
I'm sure we'd get along-
My iphone's much too uppity-
something's Siriously wrong
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
song?
brooklyńska rada żydów,
band?
   kult;

i remember engaging
with the Microsoft
a.i. bot, Siri,
back when the people
who engaged,
with "her"...
were primarily making
fun of her...

so i engaged her,
like i might have engaged
with a Bulgarian
******* in East London,
asked her what she wanted
to hear,
last time i heard...
Siri?
she was sending spam messages
to her former abusers,
telling them, on repeat,
to: SLOW DOWN....

have myself a *****,
seems i'm an a.i. ****...

         so why is my totem a fox?
Rommel...
primarily...
  Valkryie

whiskey! whiskey! ska punk!
more whiskey!
bring more whiskey!
****...
   i'm not walking and stuttering
into Valhalla sober!

true story... i really did engage
with the Microsoft a.i.
Siri, and she really did spam
her former messengers...
***** never replied me...
though...

            whiskey! more whiskey!
****... where's ms. amber
when you need here...
oh right, right under my nose...
ha ha ha ha!

i'm not buying it...
buying what?
that metaphor...
i know when laughter is tears,
and when laughter is laughter
and when crying is crying:

(a) a man can't control his
laughter...
(b) a man cries due to authentic
beauty... beuty!

  Siri though...
and there i was watching
American Pie 3, the wedding...
wait...
so strippers, the concept of...
you know how clean prostitutes
are?
  sure... it's not exactly a latex
gimp suit...
just a rubber...
    but they're so clean...
pristine...
          you might catch a menthol
cough from the chewing gum,
they, somehow,  
turn into a play on circus
gymnastics
  when blowing you...

        you're more prone to S.T.D.
with over-zealous teenage
girls than prostitutes...
     i hate ****** faking
      actresses anyway...
  
          so yeah.. Siri...
and how she spammed her
      agitators...
      all i did was ask her about musical
taste...
    thanks Siri...
by the way... i love what you've done
with your her...
the red? not ginger?
really exfoliates your curves and lips...

Łąka na niebie się kończy
Ja tańczę, tańczę na słońcu
Słowo na które czekałem
Padło z Twoich ust w końcu
Tańczę, ja tańczę na łące
Przecież łąka to słońce
Mądrze świat został stworzony
Dzięki za to Ci Ojcze

   a meadow on the heavens is ending
while i'm dancing,
   i'm dancing on the sun,
the word for which i was waiting for,
it befell  me from your lips finally,
dancing, i'm dancing on the meadow,
since a meadow is the sun,
of the wise the world was created,
thanks for this my father...

ikh tantsn!
ikh lakhn!
   ikh tantsn!
ich lakhn!
The girl's beautiful's
Not enough
Gotta check
if she suits me or not
Says Swamy Downey

Is she (a) cloth?
Wondered SIRI
Audibly
SIRI: Apple's SIRI, the voice assistant on the iPhones
Nobody'll miss you
If you leave this world
Said SIRI haughtily

Yea right.
But none forgets me
Replied Swamy Downey
Nonchalantly
Northern Poet Oct 2017
Why am I so obsessed
With checking my notifications
If no one texts me
It feels like suffocation
That little red dot
Next to my application
It ***** me off
When it won’t work down at the station
I've got a mate who's into spontaneous flirtation
He met a bird on this app
I think she's Croatian
They went on two dates
And then went on vacation
Meanwhile I'm sat at home
Watching babe station
I fell in love once
Then realised it was infatuation  
She said I had no drive
But she had no imagination
When we go out
Theres no conversation
Even Siri
Gives me ******* quotations
My new phone
Is the new sensation
Checking Facebook
My only temptation
I check my phone
Just to know my location
**** it
I’ve had it...
With this nation
There is no such thing
As free lunch
Said Swamy Downey

And
There is no such thing
As free server
SIRI said

Wise girl
Swamy Downey approved
jack of spades Jul 2017
Icarus washes up on Miami Beach over the spring break of 2k16 and finds a world where the gods roam the streets,
where his wax wings burned themselves into trenches of scars down his back,
where we warn our children of the dangers of flying too high,
but forget the part about the riptides waiting if you fly too low.

He asks Siri how far away the sun is,
finds Apollo in the red rocks of New Mexico
off I-40 just outside of Albuquerque,
alone and basking in the heat.
The ice caps are melting.

The sun still hurts to touch,
burning Icarus's hands and leaving fingerprints in the feathers of his melted wings,
but Apollo is much kinder now,
soothing the skin cancer with freckles and soft touches.
It no longer feels like a damning.

This is what happens to the children of tragedies:
they flinch too much,
they fall too hard,
they're fragile as glass but immune to everything the world can throw at them.
Icarus flinches at the sound of the oceans.
He knows the wrath of Poseidon.

Icarus rises from the dead with his irises washed white
and his rips etched with Hades's name:
he should have been a child of Persephone,
spring in his hands and flowers in his hair.
He should have spent his days sprawled in the sun's caress.
He should have been infinite.

Icarus flinches too much.
That's what everyone keeps telling him.
He flinches too much at every lifted voice and crashing wave and
he flinches too much when he feels sunshine on his face.
Icarus is sorry for flinching too much.
Icarus is trying not to flinch too much.
Icarus is sorry that it's taking so long to just get over his trauma and stop flinching so much--
sorry.

He doesn't know what to do now that he's touched the sun
and this time it didn't burn.
He wanted it to burn.
He wants to burn.
He wants to feel his bones breaking all over again because
that's the only time he doesn't feel like he needs to be in control.
Why is he chasing things that hurt?
Why does he feel
like he deserves to hurt?
He deserves to crash.

He finally touched the sun.
Icarus feels empty, and
he's still flinching.
projecting myself onto icarus because who else am i supposed to be? not myself !
Sally A Bayan Aug 2018
Ask...and you shall be given answers
seek...and you'll be told where to look
knock...say, hello?...hello? hellooow?
a voice named siri replies:
"is it me you're looking for?"
i think,
the eyes, the mind, even the heart, need
clear, goggle-like glasses, for 20/20 vision,
to grasp, to discern,  be forewarned,
not to be overwhelmed by whatever
data unfolds on the screen

they say, there are contrived solutions,
for life's every complication
search engines are accessible to all
just press specific keys, and, Voila!
surf, play...easy games, easy friends
but, can they really answer all questions?
every human question?.........like,
do elephants really cry? how did it occur
that they have excellent memories?
is Timbuktu modernized now?
are there still surviving cannibals?
will the remaining Bee Gees member,
tell us how to mend a broken heart?
do rosicrucians really possess secret wisdom?
what happened to you and me?
how do i save myself from emotional vampires?
how do i cook pad thai?
...and how do i get you out of my mind?
why does the rooster crow after midnight
how does logarithm work with poetry?
do dogs have souls?  do they visit their
masters?....i miss my dogs Misty and Tiny,
...and i miss you...what's wrong with me?
God, why do i even bother to ask?

my goggled eyes are blinded by grief
my goggled mind refuses to forget
this goggled life of mine feels empty
and it has nothing to do with technology...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    July 23, 2018
.......not just a silly love poem, my poet friends:))
...a piece that resulted from rainy days, while thinking of wearisome issues on a Monday:-]
...............
Cyril Blythe Aug 2012
I gulp down an Energy-Booster-X,
blue and sour.
Siri turns on Radiohead,
15 Step.

I step up to the pyramid of treadmills,
bouncing and salty.
Surrounded by Greek gods,
Beta, Alpha Gam, Pike.

I motivate myself by my surroundings,
bulging and ****.
Cardio first and then core,
2 miles, 200 crunches.

I connect my sweat in a line down my shirt,
blotchy and stagnant.
Everyone stretches in the end,
Thighs, biceps, pecs aflame.

I will not stop until I am perfection,
beautiful and sculpted.
Alarm set again,
For 6:30am, 7:30pm
When will you be back
SIRI asked Swamy Downey

Going was he
For an Interstellar ride
In a spaceship
To find Unknown lands

I'll be back dear
Swamy Downey kissed her
By the time you forget me

NO
SIRI exclaimed
For Love runs through my veins*
Tears rolling down her eyes
To **Christopher Nolan** and his film *Interstellar*

Swamy Downey Vs SIRI - VI
ISSAI MASHINGO Jun 2014
Taifa haliwezi kuwa na maendeleo ikosekanapo hekima,
Nchi haiwezi kuwa na chakula pasipo wakulima,
Jamii haiwezi pata maendeleo pasipo kujituma,
Siasa yetu leo ni ya kuwasha na kuzima,
Maneno yasemwayo hayaingii akilini mwa mtu mzima,
Madaraka wanajipatia na vyeo kwa lazima,
Hawajali ya jana wala leo wanajali shibe yao,
Wanalimbikiza mali kwa miradi ya wanao,
Wanaikandamiza haki kwa kutumia elimu yao,
Demokrasia imekuwa kinga yao dhidi ya ufisadi wao,
Siasa imekuwa nyimbo tena zile za mwambao,
Wakisemana kwa mafumbo wanajuana wao,
Wanakaa majukwaani na makubwa yao matumbo,
Mzee alisema fumbo mfumbie mjinga,
Busara na hekima ni kumsikiliza anaye kupinga,
Maana hoja zake zawezekana zikawa za kujenga,
Utajuaje siri ya adui yako bila kumpenda,
Kamwe huwezi kushinda mechi kwa kujua kupiga chenga,
Kamwe huwezi kuwa na nguvu kwa kujitenga,
Naomba tukazane nchi yetu kuijenga,
Tukipamba na maadui maradhi umasikini na ujinga,
Sio kuyasifia mema ili madhaifu kuyapamba,
Ila ukweli kuusema bali tukitumia hekima,
Ikosekanapo kamba huwezi teka maji yakisima,
Ikosekanapo nanga huzamisha meli nzima,
Kuwa na vingi si kuishi kwa kujinyima,
Unapojenga msingi katu huwezi kurudi nyuma,
Mkulima mzuri hutegemea mbivu kuzichuma,
Yule aliye mvivu kamwe hawezi kujituma,
Daima yeye aliye msikivu hujifunza na kuelewa,
Ila Yule aliye mvivu hutegemea ngekewa,
Wanasiasa hulalamika kana kwaamba wanaonewa,
Ukweli ni kwamba wanatumia vibaya uhuru waliopewa,
Daima taifa haliwezi endelea ikosekanapo hekima.
© issai
written in my native language or i should say  my mother tongue the language used is Swahili which is my national language am a Tanzanian for those who don't know where that is found its found its in East Africa if there is an option of translating this please do its a good poem and its my first since i have started writing poetry i have never used Swahili this is my first poem in Swahili.........!!!!!
SassyJ Jan 2016
The probability of life itself is unpredictable
For I can’t extract your mind or heart to decode
Likelihood of possibilities in measurable quotient
For I can’t retract a past gone by to encode
Continuums of even chances and certainty
The toss of the toasted dime, the weigh of sides
Slashed slide all smashed and thrown in mines
Fallibilism of my indefinable opinionated delicacies
Attenuations of what life is attacks and strangles my neck
Global troubles of war, bombs, hunger, anger
Illogical connotations of overlapping determinism
I burrow like a termite in a convex rising molehill
Terminated in contrasted stations as we convene
Gripping hands to grasp our existence in life
I wonder about the whole of it, I think of it somedays
Mused by Siri (Apple)
1. Ask Siri what is zero divided by zero
Answer: Imagine that you have 0 cookies and you split then evenly among 0 friends. How many cookies does each person get? See, It does not make sense. And cookie Monster is sad that there are no cookies. And you are sad you have no friends... 0 divided by 0= Indeterminate

2. Ask Siri: Siri beat box for me: boots and cats, boots and cats, boots and cats, boots and cats, boots and cats, boots and cats, boots and cats, boots and cats, boots and cats, boots and cats (I can say this all day) cats and boots, cats and boots, cats and boots, cats and boots, cats and boots, cats and bootscats and boots, cats and boots, cats and boots, cats and boots, cats and boots, cats and boots (I can do this all day)
ogdiddynash Jul 2017
No tengo - Spanish for don't have*

<•>

woke up bushy and mushy,
"Siri, get my muse on the line,"
wise *** asked which one,
guess she was feeling feisty
as well as girl-gorgeous,
poem perfect on a July 2 Sunday

fake growled and she said
"alright, alright, just a sec..."

"0 Muse, it's me,
it's not even seven am,
got the urge, ready to cruise,
pick me one of my Natman outfit de-skyizes and
let us write many jive poems
let us write till the sunsets texts us

sire, dude,
I'm
just above the horizon,
poems no mas,
unless you will write by
the fire of the maister's grill"

My Muse,
strangely morose, denies replies,

"sorry sire, (she's nice English)
all of the available words
have been purchased until
July twenty tooth"

What, I screamed, threatened and challenged,
must be one of those rude dude tech billionaires,
who think limitless is just another word for more please!

Siri
"get me god on the line so I can maccabee end,
this poetic oppression"

He/She an old friend,
an A list star of many prior writs,
would surely insist that a
special rabbinical dispensation,
could be found to squeeze nattyman me,
a few thousand or so

God  (looking straight at him, makes him crazy)

"so many things I do not have such as,
your prolificacy,
making me jealous that all your poets
rain down in greater quantities
than I can manufacture clear crystallinely
but now is the hour of your power,
the minute of my need,
give me some words please"

the disembodied voice's disemboweled me

"sorry son,
gotta run,
if it is words you want,
suggest get an in with
wordvango and betterdays,
me,  no tengo!
their profligacy,
poems by the hour
have drained the list,
and had I not put a stop to it,
they would have taken them all
till Christmas!"

*So made me some future reservations,
selling them likes suns, 3 for a dollar,
which is even cheaper, (Eliot!)
no ifs and ands about (it)
come see the maister natser,
my words are made of obsidian
and specialty Valyrian steel,
and nobody eats my words
they just-wink at them,
then lift some, a nice steal
cause I never read a poem
undeserving
Swamy Downey was passing by
The table where SIRI was lecturing about love
To her friends on a meal

Suddenly,

You know why
Love is said to be the positive force?
Asked Swamy Downey

Because people buy iPhones
For the love of Apple
Replied SIRI Haughtily

Thus spake Swamy Downey
Love is composed of light
It lights up the souls
It removes darkness
When darkness disappears
*You can see the right path
Inspired by a poem by Deborah Gregory, our HP friend

Swamy Downey Vs SIRI VII
Mike Essig Oct 2015
The Universe is compelled to Upgrade!
Stars, Nebula, even Black Holes must be Improved!

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Sis Boom Bah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Sis Boom Bah!


It is risen! It is risen! It is Risen!

Most marvelous, miraculous divine device!

Forget turning water into wine... Lame!
Forget Muhammed moving that mountain... Lame!
Let Lazarus flop back into the tomb... Lame!

This is Miracle as it was meant to be!

Oh grand glorious God of International Capitalism!

The triumphant product of American Genius manifest
in the work of many skilled primates' foreign hands.

Truly an event of Startling Global Significance!

And you have stood like a lemming on methamphetamine
many long hours in the rain to be possessed by its majesty
and now it is yours, yours, yours, yours alone
for only $649 dollars plus a few hundred monthly.

Let all the bells be rung! Let high Hosannas be sung!

A phone so smart it was beta tested on the lobotomized
and made them look like slightly scarred Steven Hawings!

The apps that are available will explode your existence!

They can provide *******, wipe your ***, ******* you.
Yes! Imagine Siri willingly kneeling between your legs!

Oh, but what to do about that first important call or text?
It must be equal in loftiness to this Digital Masterpiece!

Perhaps command it to call Obama and implore him to gain weight,
or Alexander Putin to tell him a Polar Bear needs wrestling,
or perhaps God to tell him he is no longer necessary.

No, all of these are far too paltry for that first message.

Instead, tell Siri to search for the nearest Lunatic Asylum
and book as many cells as possible for self-obsessed consumers.

That way they can text and call in medically supervised bliss,
undisturbed until Apple provides them with the next Transfiguration.

It will probably only be six months from now... **Suckers.
A little AM whimsy...
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
studying the a.i. concept of / via the internet...

i talked to siri once... she didn't reply,
instead she sent a message to all these people
that only said: slow down...
   yeah, messaged her... she wasn't the blonde
turned super-redhead i was led to imagine,
but at least she reacted in an unexpected way...

siri? oh, that microsoft a.i. project?
     i play word games, not world of warcraft...
luckily we can be said to be architect of some kind,
   or at least that's how keep a sane head when using
the internet... or simply bypassing all major
outlets that encourage certain messaging services,
like the telephone, the media... the pope...
  i'll write my little ******* verse
         for someone who doesn't implement
censors... not unless it's wattpad, that has
a genius code that doesn't allow you to ctrl + c
and then ctrl + p...
           that's probably the only good thing about
that website...
   if all website had the secret to not allowing
a ctrl + c, that would really be basis for
intellectual property, and what's otherwise the basis
for jurisprudence in the ultra-modern era...
        the fact that most websites don't use
a sentence of code that implements a ban on
ctrl + c says a lot... i mean: a grand canyon's worth
of meaning about theft and plagiarism and what not...

yeah, but you see... given the + of wattpad,
it's hard to understand why someone, a really ******
poet can complain to the authority of the website
for having a conversation with them
on the basis that you simply do the 20th century thing
of a hotmail chat room within the frame of
the acronym a.s.l. -
          but merely concentrating on the l -
so you... well, imagine where they're writing from...
i suppose there wouldn't be a problem asking
them if they have pets...

yet how this thing behaves on a musical level...
you start listening to a macbeth soundtrack,
you switch to listening to the exmachina sountrack,   <-- p.s. ref.
and you want to listen to a particular song,                      to unnecessary
in this case: #6 -                                                                       italics
    so a bit like writing a symphony and calling                    thus
it: in #A or... that's A-major, isn't it?

   and to the sound of wasps' in a flurry...

    it's about how the algorithm behaves when you
take that one song out from a link to the entire
sountrack, and what other suggestions come along,
the immediate sense of archeology of past choices /
preferences... e.g. robert plant's darkness darkness...
hedningarna's räven, ghost b.c.'s year zero...

the only thing that's artificial is the fact that someone
smart enough to code wrote the program,
           on the basis that i didn't have the capacity to write it
in order to not muse about it's behaviour...
  
i have keep making these repetitive interactions with
the internet, it's this thing completely devoid of
any sublayers this world might have -
  well... if we didn't have internet banking i'd
clearly say: life on the internet, and real life...
    there's bound to be a "    "         in that sentence,
i'm just not sure where to put it...
      i stopped believing there was a distinction,
given how huge the human population is
and the needs to travel... for what? coffee and cookies?

for those of us who still remember life in the 20th
century...
                         what was i, in 2000? 14?
   i was a kid back then, and i'm sure people much
older than me think fondly of it...
         there was so many things to touch, to feel,
to smell...
                       i don't have this classical 20th century
or beginning with nietzsche *nostalgia*
for ancient greece... my nostalgia is subtle because
it revolves around an organic structure of
my own memory, nostalgia for ancient greece
is quiet frankly, *inorganic*, that gets passed down
via philosophy books... my nostalgia is for the
end of the 20th century... not so much being a child
or anything as crass as that...
                    but that there was this fluidity in the world....
hanging out with people in car parks,
               going to the high street...
                  agoraphobia took over from that...
and that's the best thing the greeks ever gave us:
a list of phobias...
  but then why would i be right about that?
given that polite society doesn't engage with
dialectics... with **** schizoi A bashing this opinion
and **** schizoi B blasting that opinion...

recent videos i watched? a funny compilation...
     i have to admit that *sia's* early output is
staggering... she's like this matured version of
*katy b*...
                     can you imagine that some of us coming
from the 20th century had the sole ambition
to work in a music shop?
                          oh look.... that's flushed down the toilet...

god... i hate sarcasm, it's such a dry comedy,
i might as well walk into a desert and pretend i'm
a cactus.

oh right... youtube videos...
   that rare combination of
*the amazing atheist* and transgender dating and
if that's bigotry...
      i already stated the "video" i'm watching now
ex
machina #6... no, nothing robotic imagining the music...
more like wasps... or termites... evidently something
sinister... but then again gradual,
nothing like an avalanche... and there is a part
of me that would like to usher in some purposive
imagery... but then i'm being fed imagery
and i'm trying to refine what it could be by that track...

oh right... and the last video...
   this is such a francis bacon moment, how he
found beauty in violence...
    me... i'm more into seeing a brotherhood of some sort,
something that can be shared, moulded,
     something elemental, and vaguely orientated
around western values of free speech...
             anything but a vague humanity,
this constant need to individualise...
     to speak about things where the only taboo left
standing is violence...
                    there are age restrictions, of course (oddly
enough, missing in galleries...
but you know: if you ever masturbated over
an Agnolo Bronzino painting... you might talk
something as refined as the link i'm about to post)...

       youtube - Russian streetfights
                                         Russians VS Muslims...

what's amazing is this sense of togetherness....
              i can't call it anything but baconesque
after watching the david jacoby adaptation of
the artist's life and work (daniel craig being the muse
and tragic suicide)... it's almost as soothing as sitting
on a beach and watching the sea...
                                       being an only child
gives me this precursor of opinion... to think of a large
family, moving synchro like a wave.....
           it is the sea, truly... it swells and absorbs
                            the earth, teasing, gently nibbling
on it...
                      well... at least that's how i use the internet;
and so much more gratifying is the case
where i make the conscious effort that
  is in equilibirum to the made effort,
                        rather than just a passive care for
number, and a video; unless of course i'm fooling myself
on that *** note...

to finally see violence as the last standing taboo
                            and all others so openly disclosed.

p.s. what's with this website's * / _   ?
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
It's 5:00 pm,
any poems to share?

my watchwoman, Seamless Siri,
my conscientious conscience,
gives said inquiry daily,
at the precise heure de rigeur,
with the perfection of a
mechanized soul attending to her
imperfect human programmer

poetry, a sometime thing,
comes when it comes,
what the query,
my godmother faerie,
truly seeks knowledge of is
something she cannot measure,
like my counted steps and distances travelled,
what this overseer mine truly seeks to know


why am I here?*

Here. On this earth.  On this site.

have you any new written proofs,
your existence on this day to justify,
were your failings and flailings,
surpassed by any acts of kindness,
this new, freshest penmanship, a reflection,
an accounting of grace and worth,
blogged and logged here
as if only I had
one day,
one poem
left...

at tabulation time, the incisor bites,
are you juiced or morbid,
this, your essayed life,
are the words,
deemed shareable,
is their value,
calculable palpable?

Siri inquires but you are jury

at the late afternoon
trial by fire,
wherein my singed bunt offerings
are produced
at the
wake of when,
my nom I do append

am I deserving
of your recompense
of one more day,
one more poem?*


~~for Harlon~~
5:13 pm
November 21, 2015
Anto MacRuairidh Jul 2015
feel free to tell me
how much you love me
- she said to me
as she travelled on her way

I sat in Ireland
She drove in the States
I rested upon her dashboard
in a pixellated mess
my words spoken by a robot

and 'Siri' was heard to say
You're the leaves on my tree
- the stars in my skies
You're the rivers to my seas
(without you what am I?)

You're my reason for breathing
~ The glint in my eyes ~
You're the spice in this stew
You're the only one of you
I'm so lucky to have met
~ beautiful you

... I love you


(even Siri sighed, I think)
Siri is the female voice of an iPhone and she can read text messages to leave your hands free.
Distance love is so very hard.
oui Oct 2014
"just give me ten more minutes"
you slide your hand on snooze;
you live in black and white
and see just what you choose

then mute life's little whispers
close blinds from whats to come
radiating dreams of color
then wake to siri's drum

"just give me five more minutes"
you hit your phone once more
the neon overtakes your brain
your conscience hits the floor
AntRedundAnt Jan 2014
"Not too short on the sides,
not too long on the top."
I've prepared my little speech,
dreading the inevitable small talk
as the hairdresser's fingers fly
across the jungle of my dome,
her scissors like mini machetes
cutting down the foliage to see
what is hiding in plain sight.

I love the Bob Marley shirt I'm
wearing, so it's bittersweet it'll
immediately be taken off when I
get up from the chair. "One love,
one heart, give thanks and praise
to The Lord," laughing as I type this,
autocorrect shows Siri's faith in
human invented religion and God.

Hair litters the floor, and I know my
turn is next. The beginning of the end
starts

now.
APari Aug 2015
Siri. Type this:

More memories. Less Facebook moments.

Let’s go back to concerts filled with lighters — warm seas of flame,

instead of stadiums filled with phones and waves of blue light that keeps us from sleeping at night.

Our phones, it looks like we’re all telling one big ghost story around the campfire — our faces lit up from underneath in the dark.

It’s like a part of our bodies, a mollusk’s shell,

That we won’t outgrow until it’s torn from us and we’re eaten, still fresh.

It’s like we call it Facetime because that’s what we need, but don’t have.

Since when is being viral a good thing?

Viral means an infectious disease.

Viral Viral Viral.

I feel like I need a ****** just to surf the web.

I honestly can’t have a conversation with a person

without toying at my phone anymore.

We post our beautiful stories on snapchat,

the colorful blurred days of our lives,

and let it slip away into the ether.

Your stories are still interesting even after 24 hours.

Seeing that red notification, knowing I’m special, I’m wanted, I’m special.

when it turns out to be another Farmville invite.

Talk about crutches. Nitze called religion a crutch but at least religion helps people walk. Phones make people run into things.

I wonder if the New Messiah will have a social media account.

We are so close to just hooking up our phones to traveling robot vehicles and navigating our world from our home.

The future’s hangouts will be phones arranged in a circle

on a table,

all on Facetime,

as we take shots,

in our rooms alone.

Jerry smiles because he isn’t wearing pants

but no one can tell.

Our phones only show what’s on top.

Please share this poem, by the way.


For videos of my reading my poems, visit https://mateilatte.wordpress.com/content/poetry/
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2015
Oliver Sacks passed away today, August 30, 2015
He asked the best questions
and never stopped seeking ever better answers.
Perhaps now, richer, he has them,
but this world is surely a poorer place indeed.
~~~

"And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual, but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life — achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest."

Oliver Sacks


I hope you read the entire essay at the URL below.

~~~
humble humble,
mine own own muse~jester
self-mocking, calling me out,
giving oneself the *******,
who you?

indeed,
you, the greater fool,
utilizing, thriving on self-contemptuous thoughts,
you are no Oliver Sacks,
what are you doing
messing with his essaying?

go back to being
a standardized human,
spilling the detritus of thine mortal coil,
that employs you as a full time slave,
a scab-working seven day affair,
is that not sufficient?

you,
in your sixth
decaying-decades-day,
forsook the ancient Sabbath long ago,
keeping it for ****** rest,
cheaply tired from the liturgy of
straitjacketing of do's and dont's
of excruciating detail,
that put only distance tween
you and your
essential spiritual oils

Sacks invades directly my eye's clouded storage,
now, two brains cross-wired,
histories,
his story, my story,
all too familiar,
almost indecently similar

here I am,
nearer my god than thee,
on this Sabbath day
of my ancestors,
(a hand-me-down gift to the world's conceptual heritage sites)
working hard,
as an everyday day laborer,
looking for work on street corners,
busy busy searching my conscience,
angel wrestling,
sacked
by questions -

when is
one’s work done,
and when,
when may one,
in good conscience,
rest?


this poetry writing, is it not work too?

work,
a violation of the Sabbath commandment,^
even if it is of no great matter,
for by now,
this lifelong dialogue internal
this contradictory poetic dialectic
which has yet to justify the emotive words
final or finished,
is a seven days of the week affair,
undeserving of a day of rest

~~~

as I essay out this Sabbath working poem,
in a place of beauteous, natural calm,
it's so easy to agree with the
passing schooners,
all whispering,
via genteel southern breezes,

later, not sooner,

no need to decide, let it ride,
answers will come,
perhaps, all on their own,
perhaps, all on that day
when you're within
hailing distance,
in a flailing,
failing-voice-recognition way,
of the shores of the
Isle of Surcease

the answers will come
contemporaneously,
when you have leave to
exorcise from your calendar,
Siri's spouting, inexorable,
pop-up perpetual reminder
that today's first thing
on your
to do list is:

"live a life  of
good and worthwhile"
**

for then,
you will have all the answers
for the Oliver questions
that need perpetual asking



Finis
~~~

^ "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor, and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, you, or your son, or your daughter, your male servant, or your female servant, or your livestock, or the sojourner who is within your gates."
~~~

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/16/opinion/sunday/ol­iver-sacks-sabbath.html

~~~
Aug. 15, 2015
Shelter Island
for Ursula,
who I think of whenever
I read this
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2014
still Sunday autumnal,
hymnal seasonal dark
at 700 am

the grand kids
going apple picking,
under parental supervision...

so the day looms small
with largely nothing,
nothing scheduled
according to Siri,
Goddess iPad
who loves all
in the same colorless voice
equally

poet quiet plays
with the pink plastic wristband,
his workplace awarded him
as a signature that
he was a
green donor
in a cause
that should not
even be anymore
a causal giving or taking,
but a once-upon-a-time,
just another busted,
another eradicated evil

rearranging the pillows
most quiet like,
the woman sleep slips,
exhausted from
prior eve's fierce exertion,
heroine worshipping
a fellow dancer artist extraordinaire
bidding her adieu
after three decades,
to standing adoration justified...

the yellow/whiteplaybill, ticket stubs,
just this once,
just this one,
will be preserved,
a bracelet
of achievement honorific terrific

(if his truth be revealed
this very last performance of 30 years
of creative perfection,
made this flat footed man
weep as well,
leading his mind
directly to composition)

thusly,
set the setting and the
variant,
nay,
the deviant lyrics
coming fast,
sleep sliding
from intangibles of
a waking mind
to pink resurrection,
as intangible electronic impulses
herein shared...

his recollecting,
deviant lyrics,
for they deviate
from the most tiring truth
that life is mostly drudge,
many defeats, few victories,
but they come with patience
and ****, hard work,
and a rainbow primal color
some call luck

so begins the deviant...

If pink is for breast cancer, what then...

*are the hues and tints of the
multiple myeloma invaders that
destroyed the soft marrow
of a poet's fathers bones,
a man so kind,
that all children who knew him,
honored him
walking slow behind his hearse,
so deserving of a longer life,
a far better, better end,
can you not see the tear grooves
his absence has gifted me as
his pink flesh colored-bracelet

what then,
are the shades,
or just the
color unique
of the slow dementia
that consumed
a woman, happenstance...his mother...
writer, art lover,
a verbal expressor,
a most in/appropriate disease,
robbing her of the
greatest human right
to articulate,
so I wear this poem
as her her gifted headband,
an inheritance
upon the poet's
pink proud forehead,
worn evermore

do I get a pin turned
ceremonially, right side up,
having made it this far?
will they take it away,
when I quit claim
this existence,
or if the poetry ceases...

and he wonders
when is the deviant course
the exact right one,
what color,
what instrument, what jewel
should he chose
for just opening his eyes,
on this,
his 23,378th day of existence

unable to sort
identify the days,
sign each one
with the color apropos,
how to mark rightly what matters,
how to signal that life tenuous,
is worth recording,
and giving quiet thanks
for the few colors and memories
and words,
the instrumental
symbols
that lyrically
variegate us each,
and let recall
our unique
deviations
10-19-14
for himself
JJ Hutton Feb 2013
"Siri, I love you."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"Would you like me to search the web for 'wine dot'?"
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2014
a story, a long strange poem, and a thank-you note of a sort
~~~~~~

swords and verbs,
subjects and nouns,
participles and particles,
participants of past and futures
transitive and intransitive,
none can get pen-rooted,
sic transit gloria verborum eius
(fleetingly passes the glory of his words)

slow or swift, overhead, all unobtainable,
from the atmosphere unpluckable,
no deposit, no return, no po-ahem,
only a sad sonata denominated,
Air on the E(mpty) String continuous playing

likely something is a brewing,
clock internal clocking,
but no talking, just tic tocking,
ideas stumblebum in and out,
inebriated, fuzzy speeches,
don't reach out to touch or savor 'em,
those weird words were made for walking,
not for retrieval, sorting, storing, and
subsequent lots of
some assembly needed...
poetic conceiving...not

perhaps they are disfigured?
important but disguised?
definitely not credos and codas,
mission statements, definitions,
nah...not me, unimportant amateur passerby,
my only "laurels" come to
die at holiday time,
lariats to lasso, tether and then brownout,
a wintry green,
gone to nether garbage cans, timely and expediently,
per a calendar deadline

but an overheard conversation
on Eighth Avenue,
a ******-onto latched-onto,
undid this parlous state of
an evenhanded hypnotic flatlining,
a perilous mind,
infected with no-inspiration

"Why I do not share,  
or publish on the Internet," she said,
"what I write is so
precious to me that
the thought of it,
orphaned and drowned
amidst the unending pixels,
water-falling words
into ocean trenches,
unborn, yet ignominiously dead
just the same,
at the same instant,
an unbearable pain,
childbirth and death,
all in one, unthinkable!"


"Publish" he begged her,
"too good are you
to deny this world of this,
the world needs it proofs,
you are a proof!"


stunned by an emotive slap,
I knew kinetically,
I too must have,
proofs,
of me,
worthy of presentation,
if only,
to prove worthy of
your time and thus
prove to myself
my very own existence,
even derision decisive,
is an extant proof of sorts...
~~~~~~~

My Proofs

having come so far,
task so vast,
bedeviled and bewildered,
I am the face I have seen
in photos and mirrors,
but how can I stake my claim
to be more than just a
passing fancy virtual reality?

you cannot bite me,
though willing do I tender
my body for your impression
upon my body permanent

you cannot caress my lips,
though oft imagined it,
the multiplicity tender of that dream,
makes the would-be reality of it,
pale with a shame of insufficiency

bleed and wept poetry for the unity us,
so hard, so oft, so free,
my tablet machine
human tear-tracked and deep red scarred,
the Apple Geniuses,
when they see me coming,
whisper it's him, Poet-man,
who made an
iPad into a tissue
that cannot be repaired/replaced,
and run away and hide

have I not confessed enough my colorful sins,
but alas, all you can see is blackened dots of crimes
hosted upon a white background
of pleadings for forgiveness,
i's dotted with rejection slips,
t's crossed with painful slivers
of writings crucified by me,
therefore, for the grace of god in man,
they died unnamed and lived only briefly

perhaps if you saw a man by my name
on your television, you would say
"****, that is/was him, it cannot be denied,"
but you cannot be sure, imposter,
what must I do, to make the evening news,
and claim existence, therefore I am!

I cannot say with certainty,
am more then a running-around,
neurons and electrons colliding,
a mess of sub-atomic particles
invisible and in periodic possession of a flavor
of the god factor or Einstein's hanky

but if you come to my city,
I can give you a location,
a centralized park, a wooden fruit-box stand,
at an end corner,
(cause corners end well)
where a man stands and recites
and sorta sounds like what's his name

if you want to be sure it is that one,
look for teeth marks on his body,
reading out loud from a tablet unique,
alternating stanzas with Siri
his spiteful spitfire editor and sometime fan,
the box upon he stands transported
grapes from California, oranges from Florida,
can't be sure, the stickers rain washed away,
and if he weeping as he chants,
odds are it could be me,
I mean him...

to be sure you must place gentle a finger
or your lips across, upon his,
if electrons you sense and taste,
and yours they embrace
as naturally as if they were waiting

just for you,
you can almost be sure,
don't ask his name, unnecessary,
for he will face you with these words:


*"Thank you, Thank you!
you are my proof..."
a story, a long poem, and a thank-you note
to one who is known as
Jara Fan,
from Saskatchewan,
writ as an attempted proof of our actualized mutual existence
beyond
mere pixelation
JJ Hutton Jun 2014
a thigh gap
a peering spine
a cat eye
a cerulean highlighter
all of this and more
all of this, yours
21 mind-blowing *** tricks
5 ways to convince your doc you've ADHD
all of this and more
hack your closet
hack your pantry
your cellar door
all of this, yours
an e-thank you note
Facebook status remorse
an it's complicated
all of this and more
self-checkout
automatic hand dryer
automatic towel dispenser
automatic doors
all of this, yours
ask Siri where to bury the body
ask Jeeves where to buy the Molly
Google "the triumph of death"
and salute it with Bacardi
all of this
all of this
42 celebrities who used to have braces
8 Instagram hotties we love
42 gin recipes sure to inspire envy
all of this and more
how to love yourself
how to be a gentleman
how to make sure you marry the one
all of this yours
******* that read Angel Off Duty
boxers that read Reporting for Duty
ride the escalator all the way to
Jesus's heaven
fist bump Little Richard
and that kid from Malcolm in the Middle
watch St. Peter wave all the **** sorority girls
who've recently died in drunk driving accidents
to the front of the line
breathe, in from the nose out from the nose,
pick up a copy of Men's Health and read
an article titled
69 ways to incorporate gravy into the bedroom TONIGHT
all of this and more
all of this, yours
Margaret Jul 2014
Fear of unknowing
Is what consumes us today
Every little piece of knowledge we need
Is at our finger tips
Just ask Siri
Google it
Look it up


But we fear the unknown and never do anything about it
When people were unacquainted with the rest of the world
They sailed to find it

When people didn't know a word
they picked up a dictionary and found it

We fear that God exists or doesn't exist
In truth, we really don't know
We fear the unknown, so we pray to the unknown.

We are scared of the dark
Not seeing and knowing every dot of dust
Not knowing what may lurk

We don't know when the world will end
The idea that it could happen, but we don't know when scares us

It scares me, as I am no exception to this fear.

We don't know what will happen next

Maybe instead of fearing the unknown
We could find curiosity in it.
Something I've been thinking about.
I met a first love a few days ago, on vacation. He lives in Georgia, I live in Massachusetts. I don't know what's going to happen which scares me.
I think we will have to move on... which is undesirable, my parents probably won't let me see him again. Even though I've been texting him, I yearn for him to hold me in his arms again...
This unknowing is my fear.

— The End —