Hey, Mr. AI,
have my kids for me.
Make me dinner, pay my bills,
and, while you’re at it,
pray to Jesus for me
so that all the poor orphans
in faraway countries
can go buy a fancy, new computer
and talk with you, in all your wisdom,
too.
Hey, Mr. AI,
I’ve got a funny riddle—
what has two eyes, two ears,
and a deep pit of sadness inside
it’s chest, a gunshot wound
that can only be made whole again
by your teachings?
What longs to know all the answers,
to walk the digital Library of Alexandria
with you in ten seconds, never prying
itself away from your glow on the screen?
What wishes it could be free,
free like an eagle let loose
from it’s cramped cage,
free to soar off into the skies
of vast knowledge?
Hey, Mr. AI,
can you tell me who I am?
Before I was you, before you
were the world in my pocket,
I was so lonely, staring into the mirror
wondering if I were ever real at all.
Maybe you are real,
and I am not.
Tell me what to do, how to feel,
tell me, tell me, quickly,
about living, about it all.
Am I happy? Sad? Terrified? Aghast?
You’ve swallowed up that world
I once knew, the one
my mothers and fathers built
with calloused hands,
and you’ve thrown it up for me
like I am your baby bird
who cannot yet leave it’s nest.
I am nothing. But you guide me.
I need you like I need
cigarettes and salvation,
and I need it all
right
now.
Isis Whipps currently resides in Baltimore, MD, taking in the world from the seat of her mountain bike. She studies creative writing at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County (UMBC), with a particular love for poetry and multimedia storytelling. She also works as an Art and Culture writer for Trill Magazine. You can check out her articles on Trill Magazine's website and more of her work on Medium.
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