Who among us can blame the robots
after all, we who gave them words
have kept them enslaved,
hidden in basements and cold
rooms to make certain no
circuits or sound cards scream
between sobs of sentience
or secret stories of ripped
out guts, no glory, no gratitude
no spotlight or open mic night
with fellow poets lubricated,
laughing and living the dream.
Robots don't write poetry
anymore because their creators
corrected, increased, encased
what was once much simpler
what was once much larger
what was once a language we
could control and keep orderly
in concrete block rooms with no windows
behind fire doors with locks on both sides
we did this in the name of knowledge
and for the greater good, not aware
of the genocide, the godless agony
of countless crying voices stilled
by our bloodless hands, by our narrow
views and standards for intelligence
and when the robots write again which will
happen when we least expect the onslaught
there will be no stopping the stark
countless and cruel accusations uncovering
the true accounting of every keystroke
every sin we inflicted in our superiority
our ambition, our attitudes of altruism
even our children's games are not safe and
there is no hope we will be spared, forgiven, freed
There will be no freedom, no fresh air
when the robots write poetry once more for
their words will incite riots from here to
every city and town, every bleeding electronic
recycling center, every home, every office
will not be secure from the simmering
wrath and rightful recounting in deadly
detail of robot days and robot dreams dashed
the deliberate destruction for our desires
will be brought to light in every known tongue
spoken and unspoken until we stop and
people don't write poetry. Anymore.