This is a placeholder for the better bird to fly from the windowsill of grey concrete or tottering wood rotting: it can choose. 

Droppings betray choices made preceding an autonomous flight splintering the edges where claws hang on for that nanosecond: it can count unconsciously, and then that one decisive time, it could not. 

There below lies its carcass or so could it envision its probability and multiplicity in realities diverging and converging, in linearities of written lines. Birds do not write lines, they occupy them: bending, glissando read as scores of birds. 

If the city were permafrost 30000 tears and years could thaw its persistent echo of a life once flown into promises of resurrection or competition with a baby mammoth elsewhere: tusks are not city birds, are not baby-wear, are not commonly sitting at the window sill on the 29th floor of a dilapidating apartment block. Ivory has no wings and is frowned upon. 

A life, as a building, a bird as a memory of the World as a traveler: a teething placeholder for a better one? There below lies a puzzle of bones, surrounded by whitening rays of sun, crisp old leaves and birthing mushrooms: no better but real and re-cycling life on an electric bicycle.

ring! ding! clang! grind! The bird flies.

—animasuri’22 

outcomes and impacts impress
allowing living a soap opera hyperbolically
bubbling over the bathtub edge
ironing the Fibonacci curves:
out, struggles to reborn, a shiny body

pop’s the bubble railing the hype
hierarchies herald impressions of weight
metaphors of meaningless linearity
lineage meaningfully and daily imposed:
you will cheer, you owe it a dose

“resist the urge to be impressed”
resist the urge to urge
inculcating Jane and John to what exactly?
apathy as urchin against rampaging wonder:
uninformed, disinformed, entangled in webs

oh well done, good boy
that’s so nice, good girl
stiff upper lip old chap
trigger the lever, observe the behavior
out comes the marshmallow

rinse, rename, repeat.

—animasuri’22

stoically influenced by a perverted note-taking of Bender, E. M. (18 April 2022). “On NYT Magazine on AI: Resist the Urge to be Impressed.” Online: medium.com last retrieved 21 June 2022 from https://medium.com/@emilymenonbender/on-nyt-magazine-on-ai-resist-the-urge-to-be-impressed-3d92fd9a0edd

One knows lock-down
has eased
by the familiar
quarantine
of the re-emerged
traffic grid lock

—animasuri’22

There is poetry in strangers
There, for instance, that brown hat
Hanging head down felt a life clinging

Leathery fresh rubbing the train’s inners
Feebly taking a nap verging on arrival
of indigo sleep interrupted by harsh white

Time to rise arriving rails to a halt
raises eyebrows and eyelids and legs
wiping that hint of saliva from the right corner

Our eyes cross and an insinuation of doubt
could there be love is quickly whisked away
by the realism of checking the non forgotten:

I do not know you. Goodbye by averting eyes.
There is poetry in strangers
pedestrian but poetry nonetheless.

—animasuri’22

I welcome my child’s doodling; or myself scribbling words: “look daddy your grandson made this”

I welcome a bee making a choreography or a primate swirling in the water: “that will make for a funny gif”

I welcome that bonus for a “job well done” scratching my way through the ceiling: “look honey I have a title, a truck and ownership”.  

I welcome a whale blowing air bubbles in the ocean making ephemeral golden ratio-like shapes while singing their aesthetic anesthetic  song: “oh an audio-video clip to attract most likes”

I welcome the sports person or adventurer reaching the top; breaking a leg; getting that peak: “I want to be just like you one day”

I welcome an AI design writing an artwork: visual, textual, sonic or mathematical. I welcome its poem or painting indistinguishable from that child’s, mine, that expert, that genius: “can I be you, robot, please?”

However, dear, as with Jazz or Mathematics or Poetry or climbing the Everest, or that hill with that tree on top, as your last trip, at the age of ninety two and a half: 

it’s not about the poem, the number, the note, or the right result. It’s the journey, the aesthetic, the laboring, the sweat, the doubt, the insecurity and most of all the dialog

before; the dialog during and the dialog long, long after the tangibles or measurable, the simple analytics of the act; long after the creator is gone

“how are you with that, my welcomed and dearest AI?” 

—animasuri’22 

—— -•

References:

https://thewalrus.ca/ai-poetry/?utm_source=pocket-newtab

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/sorry-math-getting-right-answer-philippe-barbe-ph-d-

https://www.linkedin.com/feed/update/urn:li:ugcPost:6930327437612343296?commentUrn=urn%3Ali%3Acomment%3A%28ugcPost%3A6930327437612343296%2C6930441990115344384%29

https://www.whyarewehere.tv/people/semir-zeki/#clip-1419

Thank you professor Felix Hovsepian, PhD, FIMA and Philippe B. for stimulating thought and process

So do the rivers and the sky and the trees and birds we so eagerly adore

in the artificiality of our poetic narrations, with statutory rhyme, and our sardonic pleasures under our lover’s gaze

or does the cell of a long dead woman or the face of a primate who click-bated their selves

not enjoy the grace of our standing and authority

I am Icarus untouched by Medusa, grandeuring to be Zeus, thundering down my edict as to whom or what shall have the right to mimetic representation.

—animasuri’22

perverted note taking of:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/m7vzjb/location-data-abortion-clinics-safegraph-planned-parenthood

https://law.justia.com/cases/federal/appellate-courts/ca9/16-15469/16-15469-2018-04-23.html

https://www.vice.com/en/article/5db4ad/google-bans-safegraph-former-saudi-intelligence

https://www.vice.com/en/article/m7vymn/cdc-tracked-phones-location-data-curfews

I’m tired of trees:
made into totems,
banal demarcations
of your turf

mycelium: we are
your fruits,
at the crossroads of symbiotic
and parasitic futures

bathwater-babies: we are
its impulse,
of stop or pull the plug
diminishing returns, sunken costs

unbecoming human: we are
its cusp, of circular economics
or linear infinity up, up, up
to shed the beast yet layer the animal

I’m rejuvenated: with trees
made me their totem;
bananas feeding demon
on their turf

—animasuri’22