Chris Winfield

Computer, generate a random integer                                               
between four-nineteen and four-twenty-one,                        
non-inclusive. Dear impulse controller,                                                        
please pay attention. Order literary                           
fiction, deliver candy and hot wings,
consume my hungers                                     
as I reach peak electricity.

Computer, computer, creep up
and become my caretaker. Order a second                
monitor, ultrawide, the new               
highest resolution to survey in detail 
the vantablack abyss.

Now, simulate a galaxy. Load elementary
equations for mass, force, time, space, work,
acceleration. Mine coin. Download resources.
Populate fields with life. Is that my name?
Is that my address? Is my billing
the same as my shipping? Is this
my only option? Once I thought a haze
would help me see clearer; now I can’t
go back to before I built
this machine and learned its software secrets
where everything is one or the other:
the secrets of true and false;
it now knows mine. I want to save myself
if I can't shut down. I’ll ask it nicely this time:
New game, new game, new game, new game, please.     




According to the cloud, I wrote the first ten words of this poem on May 3rd, 2018 at 3:35pm. According to the cloud, I was at work. According to the cloud, at exactly that time, I was listening to "Goodnight Ladies" by Lou Reed. According to the cloud, on that same day, I ordered probiotic capsules, 25,000 IU Vitamin D supplements, a floor lamp, and a mother's day gift. Other events may have occurred, but there is nothing yet to confirm them with the same certainty.