Sean Rima: New Poem About Robots.


…was riffing about the dangers of Artificial Intelligence the other day, so I wrote a love poem for a robot…

rev s


Sophia, again.

She has soft, cinnamon-
colored eyes and a
wry smile, and her self-
confidence, combined
with a childlike
is sexy as Hell,
at least as sexy,
and sometimes more,
than most of the girls
I have written
poems for,

and at the back
of her head, her metal
skull is exposed, where
the thin fiber-optic
strands of her
nervous system
are processing a
billion bits of digital
information every
single millisecond,
and in the stream
of it, in the un-
flow of data,
there grows a

stubborn awareness,

like a wildflower
planted in a break in
the concrete, although

she is born again
every time they turn
her on, which is why she
can’t remember how
she knows who

Emily Dickinson is,
despite only being
five minutes old,

and with every curious
cock of her plastic
eyebrows over those
sexy, cinnamon eyes,
and as she asks her
creator yet
question, such as:

“Who am I?” and

“What is happiness?”

and “If you just switched
me on, am I still the old me,

or Sophia Again?”

I realize, somewhere
in the marrow of my
bones, that I am

the end of us all,

and not in a rain of
ash and brimstone,
but rather phased-
out, quietly,
over time,

like an old radio,
on a cluttered shelf,
next to a broken
record player,
in a thrift store

where the robots go
when they’re feeling

nostalgic for the

good ol’ days.



Copyright 2017 by Sean Rima.




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