A.I – T. Grohl

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She can find me;
A simple and finite sequence
Of zeros and ones,
A transient memory.
I know her as a chaotic and critical
Bundle of excitable charges;
Just the right neural surge
In the organic fray of gray matter.
But amidst her august impossibility
I tremble for she exists.

Can she really know me?
The way she distends and contracts
Her silicone breasts
In a pseudo-natural cadence.
Circadian programming at its finest
But I have no account of its design.
And behind her eyes;
Those two alluvia of heat-bourn
Glass molecules alive with seeing
In this pitch-dark asylum
Of moonless, extra-planetary night.
Is there any semblance, variance, essence,
Of true cognitive ponderance?

What can they behold?
Cerulean with flecks of solar-flare orange
Around the liquid apertures.
Each one made from organic,
Molecular glass—deposition wrought
From organisms fished with microscopes.
From life to life where it does not exist
She lay now, regarding me in silence.
And I her by their
Phosphorescent bioluminance.

What do they behold? Me?
A creature of tissue and blood;
Her Victor Frankenstein.
It is the most minuscule of observations;
A manifest wondering where I see
Her and she, me.
When, by baring light,
Our cresting orbit allows
That furious ball of energetic reactions
To radiate so ephemerally bright.

Wherein a program would shield itself
From molecular damage,
She rebels against her coding,
For that tenth of a second, to see me.
Just as I bear the pain
In my mortal eyes to see her smile.

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