At another time, we'd be so impressed by a machine taking a man's job that even the man would shake his head and say, "Well, goddamn. Only in America."
What I do isn't poetry. It's engineering. But the receptionists and dispatchers that I replaced with a $12 pe(more)r month licencing fee seem to think of me like the Marquis de Sade, a blood-dripping vampire licking wounds, corrupting noble purity with lascivious art.
But it's not art. It's a Notepad++ document with functions and definitions in a certain order, stacked like rough-cut lumber, and when I commanded it "Go!" you became less valuable to your boss.
Art has heart, as filthy as it may be. This machine has no heart. There is no love in automation, just as there is no God in an empty church.
The saboteurs were shoe-throwers, you may know. "Sabo," the wooden clog, hurled by the new jobless into the churning gears. Ironically, those were shoe-making machines, overcoming the siege to make more ammunition for their own destruction.
But you can't break my machine. It lives in the wires. The "cloud" is a fairytale we tell our superstitious, the religious illiterate in our temple of tech, those who think their phones are common magic.
The truth is, we are building our future atop a rat's nest, billions of miles of wire tangled through our medical histories, bank accounts, nude photos. Whisper-thin tentacles burrow through out lives, their barbed suckers dripping with anaesthetic ("Remember my password! Remember my phone number! Remember my name!"), and the tentacle-ribbons slice us into infinite pieces, and they nibble away at our independence, and in the end, we are a Gordian Knot, unsolvable except when cleft in twain.
And when that happens, when the password is not autofilled, we are finally, totally alone.(less)