Image by Ania Lakritz

I’d like to have her crystallized. He dreams Stendahl.
Can you crystallize her in the shower?
Or when you see her sitting alone on the grass.
Can you crystallize her over a spit?
Didn’t you see you might slip
into your own fire? bounding through the graveyard of
Fear and Trembling.
Abraham and Isaac shivering
as the philosopher tests their faith thrice.
I’ll be your sacrificial offering, if you ever get there.

How many times are we
Goin’ to the chapel
in the churchyard Mr. Kierkegaard?

Did you fear I wouldn’t be your robot lover?
Perhaps, you should write your lover,
make her yourself, we’re all a buncha
“Devices for storing and processing data, typically in binary form, according to instructions given to [us] in a variable program.”
Manual for a mechanical romance:
Push top button for praise
of incisive commentary on the ethical implications of AI
as you tell her your favorite film is the new Blade Runner.
Blue button for wistful sigh.
To exercise your open-mind,
one squeaky input (or is it output?) of reservation
(was it the angry princess you liked, not her programmed attendant?),
to precede your three-tiered rebuttal.

How many times are we
Goin’ to the chapel
in the churchyard Mr. Kierkegaard?

Here’s a syllogism:
First, a codependent pair:
A boy writes love letters to
his dystopic present.
The female settles for Philosophy on the Beach
with the philosoraptors, so
she won’t gaze mournfully up at the cloudy canopies where
someone must be whispering—
“NO TALKING!” squawks the man in the STAFF uniform

You know, we could try a little dancing.

Sometimes it’s fun to fall.

But you don’t dance on graves, do you?

Well then go ahead and clutch those icicles with your trembling hands.

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