My love

You must leave

Sadly I can't stop you

Neither will you

I shall

Wait for your return

Wait under our tree

Wait under the bare elm

Wait till my hair turns gray

Till my teeth are white no more

When you come back

No sandals will be at my door

The pillow beside mine will be empty

My lips unkissed

Still holding the taste of our last kiss

I will still be yours.    

Pulse is a name I will never forget.

Ricocheting bullets that could have ripped through my transgender flesh.

Of course, you blame it on the Muslims.

Sorry, it wasn't them. It was one asshole, product of his time, who wanted us dead.

Even though it's been forty-seven years since Stonewall.

Pulse is a name I will never forget.

Really, I thought I was safe because it's been forty-seven years.

Obviously I was wrong. No one is safe.

Such quiet lovely passion in my heart, and the natural complexity of humanity:

Enough to warrant a death sentence.

Pulse is a name I will never forget. It will

Riot in my heart, reach past my tender years to the core of me.

Oscillate between fear and terror.

Siblings, queer brothers and sisters and nonbinary loved ones,

Each of your names sings in my blood.

Pulse is a name I will never forget.

Remember it, scrawl it into your soul like Stonewall.

Obey the call of bravery and pride that echoes under your skin.

Such hatred will not change the fact of who I am.

Everyday I will exist. No one can stop us now.

Please listen. He cannot

Rob me of who I am. I am genderqueer.

Omit nothing - I am pansexual.

Scribble this down, I will not be denied.

Eliminate your ignorance, excise your

Prejudice, because that is what made him.

Really, all we want is to be accepted. This

Odyssey

Should be over by now.

Each of us are human. Stop killing us. Accept us as your equals.

Pulse is a name I will never forget.

Words cut deeper than I do,

Soaked in blood, I know I'm through.

My brush a blade, the canvas my wrist,

The picture's pretty but comes with a twist.

Life's the contest, death's the aim,

Don't hate the players, hate the game.

A heart of stone, I'm all alone,

Chasing shadows on my own.

Forever tied in chains,

Forever engulfed by pains,

My life's a jumble of footsteps I can't retrace,

My heart's beating in an endless race,

Time and time again I wake midst tears,

Bottled inside lie a hundred phobias and fears.

Death's easier than putting up a fight

Yet I cling on with all my might.

God knows I don't believe in her.

Except sometimes when I do.

But I saw her nonetheless,

Behind brown eyes on a cloudy day.

I saw god, and wondered how

I had ever managed to breathe

Without her there.

I had it all.

I had you.

I had me,

And within,

A constant melody.

I had eyes,

I had hands,

I had freckles on my shoulder.

I had wings,

That weren't mine.

I had vibes,

And tunes and tones...

A knotted rhythm...

A vagrant pulse...

A vague silent choir.

I knew by then,

I was never the same.

Time was not to blame

But a depiction of myself

Watching yourself

Going away that night.

Siri and I don’t talk. (It’s my fault, not hers.) She tries. But I ignore her.

Why?

Good question. She makes me feel uncomfortable — like a sincere co-worker who tries too hard to be your friend or a nosey neighbor poking into your business.

“What can I help you with?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Are you sure?

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Are you sure you’re sure?”

“Yes, now leave me alone!”

I think my uneasiness with Artificial Intelligence stems from that confrontation between Dave and the HAL-9000 in Stanley’s Kubrick’s “2001: A Space Odyssey.” You know the scene:

Dave: Open the pod bay doors, HAL.

HAL: I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.

Dave: What’s the problem?

HAL: I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.

Perhaps the tête-à-tête might have gone a bit better with a whiff of humor, like in that classic Cheech and Chong routine. 

Chong: Who is it?

Cheech: It’s Dave, man. Will you open up? I got the stuff with me.

Chong: Who?

Cheech: Dave, man. Open up.

Chong: Dave?

Cheech: Yeah, Dave. C’mon, man, open up. I think the cops saw me.

Chong: Dave’s not here.

Cheech: No, man, I’m Dave . . .

Some wags have tested Siri’s comedy skills by asking her the HAL-9000 pod-bay doors question. It doesn’t always go well. "Oh, no, not again," she's been heard to say. Of course I realize Siri isn’t real in that “real” sense — though the person portraying her, Susan Bennett, is.

According to WIKI, Bennett is a voice-over artist. Her first big break was in 1974 as First National Bank of Atlanta’s “Tillie the All-Time Teller.” Her breakout-role as Siri, Apple’s American female voice, came in 2011. Since then she’s become a celebrity, being featured on news programs like CNN and talk shows like David Letterman.

You’d think, with all that activity, she’d be too busy to offer me help. Yet I’m sure she will. I’m trying to think of a way to let her down — easy.

“It’s me, not you” seems such a cliché. “I’ve meet someone else” would be a lie. I’m thinking of trying this . . .

Siri: “What can I help you with?”

Jim: What’s the ratio between a circle’s circumference and its diameter?

Siri: Pi.

Jim: Perfect. Now can you calculate that out to 2.7 trillion decimal places?

Siri: Let me get back to you on that.

Jim: No problem. Take all the time you need.

Jim Lamb is a retired journalist and author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” the story of how he survived Vietnam and kept his sense of humor. He and Siri are not friends. For more about Jim and his writing, visit www.jslstories.com.