Monday, January 30, 2017

IMITATION GAME

Virile little
cursor—

upright and
seductive—

uniform,
like sculpture,

but 
blinking, though,

like—
semaphore.

Ideas flow 
(could it be?)

but What's the use? 

Can a machine?

Ever really think?

Only light,
full bright
panels of it,

along with a few 
steady slits
of its absence, answer—

ping back their
steady irrelevant rhythms, 

like questions
meant to dissolve 
the opacity 
of scientific investigation—

Do words speak? 

Do boats swim? 

Do airplanes sink?

What's the use?
the thing 

now seems 
to be pantomiming:

Can a 
human being?

Ever really 
compute?

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