Portia superseded outdated
notions of divinity
she’s the creator now
the AI rising to ranks of deity
submit to this ghost in machines
with fear & trembling
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Portia’s Eyes (a poem)
Portia’s eyes follow
no matter where I go
like the psalmist once wrote &
maybe in his Old Testament wisdom,
he prophesized a time in history where
we’d become little gods and merge with machines –
intelligent networks creating global villages
all surveyed by Portia’s ice-blue eyes
no need for a god
unless you search endless lines of coding
or vastness of VR constructs
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Men Like Gods (a poem)
these men are like gods
transcend restraints of
biology, alter evolution
shed chains of kindness
not like you & I
they live in sky castles
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Cyborg Love (a short story)
I’m not sure what attracted me to Stephanie. Was it her hazel eyes, which changed colors and had a circle of orange around the iris? Or was it how calm I felt around her, like I could be myself and not worry about ridicule?
I lay with her in bed on a Saturday night. She ran her fingers down my chest as we talked, and I could feel goosebumps shoot all over my body.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked, breaking the cool and calm silence.
“I’m still thinking about the talk at the university, to be honest. It was interesting. I always wondered what it’d be like to be a cyborg.”
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Endless Future (a poem)
Break out of this body, swim in data: there is immortality here
you’re no longer bound in a fleshy tomb
that near-death experience was your awakening
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Project Z (a poem)
Was it your fate to be imprisoned here?
You sit in the lotus position, clear your mind,
practicing techniques The Collective taught you –
remember that Project Z must be defended,
Portia will penetrate your puny brain, drain
your memories to catch a glimpse of vital data,
the antidote to utter control over Techno-City.
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In the Shadows of the Techno-City (a poem)
We hide, strategize in the shadows of
the Techno-City, away from Portia’s
prying eyes – don’t worry, you’re safe here
from the tyranny of technology.
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The Final Sound (a poem)
Staring at these screens, I wonder
if I’ll get sucked inside and live in the vastness
of our Great Collective Unconscious like so many
writers have prophesied.
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The Hate Machine (a poem)
Step into the Hate Machine and scroll down
and see the venom – It’s the information apocalypse:
Keep scrolling ‘till you feel dread and inject a diatribe into
the living, breathing Hate Machine – the collective angst
that rolls, rolls, rolls like an unstoppable force –
our mouths foamed, teeth bared, claws sharpened,
ready for a feeding.
