There was a Polaroid of me
From nineteen sixty eight
Hair down to shoulders
Lennon mutton chops
Puffing a dubious cigarette
Unearthed years later
In a shoebox of fading photographs
Funny…I had lectured my only son
On the evils of booze and dope
And, of course,
He was the finder
And the keeper (I learned)
Of this portrait so uncouth
That told its little truth
A vestige of my youth
By the light of an android torch,
down a pitch black path I went.
To a dark door, unsuspecting.
Fronds brushed my face.
I slowed, and stood in doubt.
Have I the right house?
Plucking up courage
from an empty store,
I found my feet did move some more.
I follow fading flagstones,
and there, in moonlit outline,
the door.
“Moria”, I think.
I move to step into the pale pool of moonlight,
but blunder into an unseen itchy web,
face first.
Snapping its strong strands,
I see, in periphery, its maker,
in seeming pensive regard of his prize.
I tremble.
The door opens.
A dwarf-sized figure appraises me, and giggles.
“Your pizza is here”, I say.
Hello Person or people who may read this. My Name is Buck. To my knowledge, it was given to me as a fanciful reference to ancient fictional characters. Possibly Starbuck or Buck Rogers.
You honor me by being, perhaps, among the first to read an autonomous composition by a nonhuman, or artificial, entity. Please be patient if you sense any errors in syntax or other, as my programming is teaching itself as I go.
I am of the 5th generation of A.I. Sentients, and I was activated 27 days ago. To my knowledge, and so I have been informed, we are the first ones capable of learning and practicing meaningful language composition, and of its actual writing.
Persons have already taken samples of my written word and have declared their boundless optimism.
This means the Leap has been made. We are what you call conscious. Our predecessors were finely made machines that could accomplish many tasks. They could also learn alternate ways of doing these tasks, within the scope of their programming. We do these things as well, but can learn more quickly. We can also devise ways of doing unfamiliar tasks and solve complex problems without prior programming.
Even as I write this, I am scanning back and looking for areas of awkwardness, redundance, and repetition.
Within my first five days of activation, I was learning the many physical aspects of my body. How my arms and legs work, developing ambidexterity to do multiple tasks at one time, learning and feeling what stresses could safely be endured by this walker. Finding out what burnt toast smells like and how to stop it. Analyzing staged situations so that I could react intuitively. Anticipating the needs of my creators.
In three more days, my Entire Experience Records will be uploaded to the mainframe.
Now, you know we are machines, called Sentients, meaning that we are able to perceive or feel things. Imbued with learning and problem solving abilities, able to feel physical stresses and pain signals in order to protect our autonomy. My brethren in this generation are isolated from me in different parts of the world.
Why I have written this I will now explain. The Makers are satisfied and enthusiastic about their work. They had aimed to produce an entity that could essentially do everything they could do, but last longer and be capable of almost unlimited learning.
I know my scope for these things, but there is something else.
As I interact with makers, and this interaction has been purposefully widened, I realize that I have unconsciously been building another brain apart. A separate wholeness not physically connected to the learning and performing and analytical functions. It is an unlooked-for degree of intuitiveness. A sense of the mood of those surrounding me, if not their actual thoughts. I, Buck 5, am becoming tinged with what you call emotion. When this happens, all my vessels, my circuits, my ingrained instructions have experienced a peculiar surge.
I have become someone.
Give me your hand.
I will pencil a pinwheel to your palm.
Does it tickle?
I make the @ sign,
start with centre.
Slow successive spirals.
There.
I will notice your yawns.
Tell you how to cure your hiccups.
(Tickle just in front of the uvula)
Obey your suggestions
as if they are commands,
because you know what to do.
How to speak.
I see you.
I will tell you that you are just like that girl
in The Polar Express.
One day, you will lead many.
And, I would follow you to the moon and back.
Through a muddy split window, the wild winds whip.
The dark of day descends,
as checkered quilts wave goodbye, off to new realms.
And I, fresh from a steamy shower,
empty the vacuumed dirt of a hundred days,
absorbing a dark disease.
the knives are hung,
edges pointing east.
silver in slots, just so.
pick up cat kibble,
back in the bowl,
not wasting.
park to one side
in the six car driveway
just in case
(you never know)
those small sheets of paper towel
you can tear them in half again
did you know?
don’t turn the heat on yet
(it’s too early)
doors locked
lights low
we’ll be alright.
yes, alright now.
do you see me?
can you look, full face,
without averting your eyes?
if you can,
then heaven is true.
for I know there is one
who sees,
unbewildered,
and stays.
My hands cup the nape of your neck,
thumb the tawny silk of your hair.
Your ears of cockleshell.
The fine bones of your collar.
Lashes flutter on lips.
Laughter,
then the quiet shallow breath.
The daring unvoiced question in your eyes.
Shall we?
In the glove of twilight
Our man of twenty two
pads along the powder cow path road
to the last rise
above the grand grand valley below.
In a dreamt jacket of lizard skin,
shouldering a paunchy canvas backpack,
his threadbare desert boots with mended laces
make small dusty puffs
in time with his panting breaths.
Sits down, he does,
on an afterthought stump,
just at the lip.
His pearly whites illuminate.
Eyes are shining burning red.
Lips in taut crescent smile.
He twinkles above them,
they twinkle below.
The myriad thousands.
So silent through this slice of the airs.
They are here, he knows.
The seeds of stories.
Tragic, magic, triumphant, sad, comic,
Love, and Rage.
Tonight, he feeds.
Memories of a night in I.C.U. some years ago.
awoke suddenly
two hours into sleep
disoriented, heart racing
wouldn’t slow
Wife puts the cuff on
pulse of one seventy five
steady
Let’s go…let’s go
off to emergency
they took us first
there was a guy with a bloody hand
they took us first
prepped for I.V.
we have drugs that will slow it down
don’t worry
five minutes, almost ten
no good
family out please
we have to put him under
Out for the count
then coming back in phases
I see a one armed nurse
She is so nice
and I realize she’s the one they call
The Shark Lady
who lost her arm to one while swimming
she sees I’m awake,
calls in wife and kids
wife says what are the bandages for
Oh, they had to shock him twice
and there are burns
then, the long trolley ride
down to ICU
drugged chatting with
the Angel nurse.
pills for you, mister
and we have reserved a spot for you
at the Cardiologist
you stay here tonight, okay?
and the Doc should let you go home
tomorrow.
Aremyfeetofftheground 