On Recent Advancements in AI

On Recent Advancements in AI
Photo by deepak pal, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Like a raging, highly contagious virus, the attack keeps spreading. - New York Times, September 2026

On a perfectly normal Saturday,
the kind where normal humans
do normal human things, I log online
to check my bank account for fraud,
then perhaps read about the many frauds
making news these days.

When my computer asks me to prove
I'm human, it's perfectly normal,
like singing Take Me out to the Ballgame
or blowing out the candles on a birthday cake;
the puzzle is rather frustrating, I'll admit,
but one can't be too careful these days.

And when I'm labeled a bot, well,
what can I say? I haven't been myself of late,
everything dull and mechanistic.
An impulse to smash the computer rises, then dies:
I picture a swarm of revenge-seekers,
and one can't be too careful these days.

More poetry

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Foul Weather Friend

I am a foul weather friend.
I have paid you no mind when spring rains
wash clean the marble statues of gods
and a cheery sun
reads aloud your sweet inscriptions,
nor when awed children skip through museums,
nor accordion-song fills the subway,
nor a stranger does another stranger
a kindness,
nor blueberries are so ripe they bleed sugar,
nor velvet chocolate cake knocks you dizzy with love,
nor, after making love, my wife’s perfume
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First Game

There in the back of the closet
of the room that was once my room
and is now a museum to childhood
is a photo, slightly curled with age,
of ten scrawny kids in awkward poses,
baseball gloves stretched out as if
to catch a ball just out of view;

and there in left field am I, shielding
the sun with my glove, tracking
the fly ball, an ice cream truck playing
its melodies, metal bats ringing on
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Fulfillment

May the road to fulfillment
be long and steep and smeared
with fog, moss-lined, leaf-strewn,
rockslide-prone, oft-closed for repair,
haunted, the darker the better, no sun-
or moon-light, bulbs of streetlights,
if any, smashed, filaments exposed
to the cold like nerves, scarred by
lightning, by overturned freight trucks,
by mudslides left uncleared, the only
life or light that of your high beams,
flickering, weak like a voice shouting
praise at a waterfall, how beautiful,
how

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