The Word has been co-opted

So that lesser dare attempt

To lift a pen or flag a train

Without feeling exempt...

Corners of the convent

Where the goblins hide their face

Are empty now as church and state

Have let them in with grace...

It's the devil that ye don't see

That's the one that does ye in

So greet all dark and dismal fate

With the passions of yr kin...

It's the devil that ye don't see

That keeks ye in the glass...

So when you ken, make of it well,

Or it will nary pass...

The black as earl waters call,

But if ye dodge the tide

They'll wet you 'til the yappy dogs

Have dragged all rivers wide...

That swindler lass ye judge so harsh,

Both lives and breathes alike...

She knows her numbers up too soon

Does jigs around your spikes...

It's the devil that ye don't see

That's the one that does ye in

So greet all dark and dismal fate

With the passions of yr kin...

It's the devil that you don't see

That keeks ye in the glass...

So when you ken, make of it well,

Or it will nary pass...

12/10/24

Edit#2

Dear Diary,

“No AI.” “Only truly creative types allowed.” “AI is a fraud.”

I encountered all three hurtful statements today. Can you believe that people would deliberately target me with painful insults?

It began with a blanket email I received this morning from my so-called friend. He asked me and three other guys if one of us would consider being his best man for his upcoming wedding. He added that his bestie had to deliver a humorous speech about our relationship, but added, “Make it from the heart. No AI.” How dare he? Why did he feel the need to humiliate me in this email string?

Later, I read the guidelines for a writing contest I wanted to enter. This one said, “Only truly creative types allowed. No machine-generated entries.” I can see good uses for such artificial writing such as helping with computer tasks and writing boilerplate language, but not for a writing contest. Your own writing ability must shine through. But why did they have to zing me by adding “no AI”?

But the most spiteful reference came in the evening when I saw that a Facebook friend posted that I am a fraud!

Have a good night, my diary. I won’t.

Sincerely,

Andrew Irwin

If you remove my bones piece by piece

And replace them all with silver rods,

At what point do you begin to create?

At what point do I become a fraud?

I must consider, I must not forget

The glorious nature of human error.

The unique grace of knicks and bumps,

These imperfections lessen my terror.

Now I have no problem if you needed some help,

Consulted an engineer to make a design to begin.

The stylistic vices of structure and form

Are harder for some to dip their toe in.

But if I find out that your “creation”

Was solely constructed by mechanical chops,

Well then, my friend, it seems that, in fact,

Against silver, the organic has already lost.

We like to make ourselves obsolete.

There used to be a time when everything basic would take us so much time that a life could be comprised of doing things to keep ourselves alive.

Then we learnt that we could outsource some of these tasks to other people. We could share out the load and focus on honing our expertise somewhere specific.

For some reason (capitalism), we would now prefer to rely on things than ourselves or others. Ourselves and others? They require payment. They can make mistakes. But they also feel achievement, feel gratification.

I do not take umbrage with replacing a house servant with a Roomba, or a carrier pigeon with an iPhone. It's relieving to be able to ignore some tasks completely, understanding that they are just inherently done due to my status as a 21st century human.

But there is a line.

People are fighting. They are scrambling over one another's shattered egos, grabbing the ties of other smart-casual men, staring into grey, tired faces. 'I am competent,' they whine. 'Here is an example of my work,' they call into the abyss. Fake jobs open their wide jaws, sucking in AI-written resumes.

We once used to have purpose; now we fire computer-generated documents across the ether simply to secure a position sending more computer-generated documents across the ether.

I just want to sit and churn butter; is that so much to ask?

Here’s my four cents worth, adjusted for inflation, on this subject.

Each generation is exposed to technology that previous generations didn’t understand or realize was needed. I don’t own a Roomba, Alexa or a “smart” refrigerator. It’s not because I’m fearful that having devices built around varying degrees of AI technology will unite and conspire to usurp my authoritarian position as homeowner then join forces with other conquered households to achieve the end goal of overthrowing our government.

I don’t own these because I can sweep my own floors. I’m never multitasking so many things that my hands aren’t freed up to set a timer. And I don’t need to get a text while at work alerting me, “UR low on milk.” I believe AI can offer comfort and convenience. It’s just at this stage of life, I’m not uncomfortable or inconvenienced enough to justify paying extra for these features.

Sunday nights, after watching Lassie at 7 p.m. on CBS Channel 19, it was my responsibility to get up from the couch and physically rotate a dial on the television, slowly and always counterclockwise so it wouldn’t wear out, all the way around to NBC Channel 3 so we could enjoy The Wonderful World of Disney. A minor chore that was worth the effort and reward. Then came cable and the universal remote. Then the DVR. And here I’m anchored, binge watching at my leisure shows my tv thinks I’ll enjoy that it recorded last week.

I knew the distance I could walk away from the landline phone (whose sole purpose was verbal communication) plugged into the kitchen wall was equal to the exact length of the stretched-out cord attached to the receiver. If I needed to get a pen and paper from across the room to write the caller’s number down so my brother could ring them back when he gets out of the bathroom and those writing implements were farther away than the extended cord length plus my arm span, I had to say, “Hold on a sec.” Then came answering machines and cordless phones. Then cellphones. And here I sit, waiting to FaceTime with my brother who’s vacationing in Mexico.

Fortunately, I’m young enough that neither original task required me to walk up hill both ways in the snow. Because, according to my parents, I had it easier than when they were my age.

So, AI in some iteration has been around for a long time. The problem is when AI advances so much it stops being used as a tool, i.e. spellcheck, and becomes a replacement, i.e. Grammarly. I enjoy the physical act of writing at my desk or typing on my computer. And I get satisfaction from revising drafts until I have the best version I can offer. I wouldn’t want to relinquish these pleasures to an AI program for the sake of having something to post on this platform.

In the interest of full disclosure, I looked up the Lassie and Disney information because I’m hard-pressed to recall what I had for breakfast yesterday morning, never mind the specific channels and times two shows were on that I watched 54 years ago. The situation and setting are based on a real-life experience. The details are accurate thanks to a search engine. Combined, I hope they resulted in something worth taking the time to read.

Not having to commit information to memory because Bing or Google can access it within seconds is a helpful resource when writing. The big issue is when people pass off an AI generated story as originating from their own creative thought process. That undermines the art of writing.

As a tech neophyte, I don’t know what an AI generated story looks like because I’m not tuned in to the nuances that distinguish a story created by a logarithm from one personally composed. Thankfully, I do know that “Mike Johnson” with a thick Indonesian accent from McAfee Support is in fact not an actual McAfee employee. And he is not going to assist me in reversing the supposed $699 charge to my credit card that I didn’t authorize for a year’s subscription of protecting my computer from viruses. He’s a scammer using technology to create the illusion he’s a compassionate human.

So that’s my take on this topic. I’ve got to go now. The Keurig is summoning me to finish watching its PowerPoint presentation on the possible ways to resolve the conflict in the Middle East. It’s been very insightful so far. But I have noticed that all the thought-provoking solutions offered have a recurring theme involving both sides drinking more coffee. Hmmm, wait a second. You don’t think...nah, never mind, I’m just being cynical. Technology wouldn’t ever become that nefarious.

Even as I type this words above the type writer form on the phone, giving me choice to choose a verb a noun and does AI take away free will? Impede the creative process?.

I think it has no soul, no heart, let's be clear on that, AI goes through the motions, uses the right words, but does it, can it, describe rain on a hot road?, the feeling of holding a wild fish just caught?.

Your first kiss?, a time you mourned?, a time you nearly died?

Your heart when you fell in love?, it is a simile AI, nothing more.

It mirrors mankind's words and has no free thought per se,, people teach AI how to write, it is not some evil automated things taking over the net, it learns by copying.

Does AI have a place in the writing process? maybe for descriptive words which were in the back of your mind anyway.

But to truly write it must come from you not AI - that's laziness.

In a way AI can be like a Webster's dictionary, used in that way it's fine.

So, to summarize, yes or no AI for me? It's a definite N O.

AI is certainly everywhere these days.

Simple Chat GPT, Art AI to give you nice pictures, AI roleplaying like Poly (now with Buzz and Fizz) and C.AI-- Chai.

I don't know when exactly I first had enough curiosity to try AI tools.

In part it was the Chat GPT South Park episode. In others, it was the commercials which said I could speak as my favorite characters. Or no...

Here it is.

The truth, I saw a commercial which said AI could write whatever story you wanted. Bring it to life. I figured, the computer would take with my style or otherwise, write a nice short story of the ludicrous concepts I have. Perhaps they'd be a little clearer.

But, it really doesn't tell a story. Not at all. In fact, it just regurgitates everything else back at you when you try to detail what you want written. Now you have quite a lot of nothing except the occasional good metaphor or prose.

As a writer, I believe AI gets ideas started.

You give it the prompt you want to work with, for example, a potential superhero poached by the supervillain with his memory wiped.

Then you do your best to elaborate. On the characters, on the world, elaborate and asking questions.

And from there you can form the stories yourself with a foundation for the timeline and story events as well as how they can coincide and enhance character story arcs.

I have about twelve note files on AI with at least twenty different stories spread out between them.

It's my AI notebook.

I am the scoundrel

Set on coals...

Came in to sear my fat...

I always pay the toll...

After a yawning transfixed

Gap

In conversation...

Cosmic slant...

You'd come to say with eyes...

Goodbye...

Goodbye...

Goodbye...

There was a world behind,

Cinched suffering

That's tightly wound,

And all that lies above

Is buried 6 feet

Underground...

And all that lies above

Is buried underground...

You made a beeline for

A circumcision of the truth...

What tempted out your ghost

Was reconvening on my roof...

This wraith...this power slave

That called out from it's awful roost

Was what the deprived pixie dust

Had slathered out in sheer disdain

Of mirror cracks

And candle wax, and all white walls

Where orphaned port

Holes breed...

I am the scoundrel

Set on coals...

Came in to sear my fat...

I always pay the toll...

We talked and swung

Under a dying twilight star...

Your hungry lighthouse heart

Beamed out like headlights

On a roving phantom car

That flickered in and out of

Physical existence while so desperately

I clung to steering wheel...

You'd come to say with eyes...

Goodbye...

Goodbye...

Goodbye...

There was a world behind,

Cinched suffering

That's tightly wound,

And all that lies above

Is buried 6 feet

Underground...

And all that lies above

Is buried underground...

11/25/24

Bunny Villaire

If you're going to point the finger

Covered with the black tar hate

At countries far beyond our third world...

Our disassembled fifty states...

Just remember we eat poison,

And our water reeks of sludge...

We're reflected in our mirror maze

Forty times but still don't budge

'less we're talking in a windstorm

Is the only time we'll hear...

Wear another person's shoes...

Try them out and feel the sole

As it scrapes against the concrete...

There are blessings we won't know...

Stop and stare into reflections

Of that immigrant you fear...

Be him Mexican, Brazilian, or of

Palestinian ilk...

These are people who can only

Save us from our own demise...

If we show them all our asses

We are aping a disguise

Of a species that cannot progress...

Canker sores denying salve...

Better wall your eyes and mouth off...

Better fence off your sweet grave...

Jump inside a cement mixer

'til there's nothing left to save...

Wear another person's shoes...

Try them out and feel the sole

As it scrapes against the concrete...

There are blessings we don't know...

Tumorous heads grow on your shoulder...

Is that just another shade

Of some self that slipped your field count?...

When you look down at your plate

Do you see meat and

Potatoes?...

Is there something else you crave?...

Maybe news from something different?...

Could their

Feelings be betrayed?...

You could pop fresh heads like bubbles,

Or big bulbous welts on skin,

Homosexual accusations

That your Psyche aims to win...

Flip the apple cart and blame the ones

That open wide their veins...

...You'll be living in some corner

With the remnants of lost claims...

11/10/24

Bunny Villaire

Edit #4

A small town in Idaho, on the outskirts, lives an...artist...of sorts, and meets a reporter who gets more than he bargained for, and the end might come, or will it? MUAH HAHAHAHAHA!!!! From the mind of one of our talents, comes this irresistible Halloween romp. Here's the link to the narration of said romp on Prose. Radio, narrated by Jeff Stewart, who is whereabouts unkown in the States, in a room where he was able to send in the audio of this story by our own WilkinsonRiling.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqIX7_Ddllg

Also, he asked us to mention this: Another talent here on the site, has a book set for release on 11/22, so go here and pre-order your copy, and give this Appalachian poet some love. He's fantastic!

https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/

Piece feaured in the video:

https://www.theprose.com/post/780635/the-halloween-legend-of-jack-mccarver

To keep the tradition in closing traditional:

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose, team