On How to do Intrinsic Literature

Eun Ji, one day do you suppose

We will stand outside of history?

We felt like outsiders, aliens, imposters

Our dreams were for centuries, not decades

Thousands of years from now

What will attention and consciousness feel like?

Under the remains of what was once

Art, literature, writing, poetry

We made myths in history and found

More meaning in it than in what

The world could offer us, wasn’t that

The ultimate choice, the biggest abandonment

We divorced reality on our own terms

Becoming recluses, we set the world on fire

In our minds, with paper hearts we

Broke our heart on men, on trivial women

On people that didn’t know

The kind of sacrifices it takes to be an artist

They were normal, living landscapes

Of cost and benefit analysis,

Like how to acquire more financial resources

Or which significant other to mate with

For successful children and for some

Mistaken sense of what descendents and legacy mean.

Years before Judgement Day

In dreams of the future I didn’t feel
So futile, nihilism was a mask
My words were always my revolution
After the wolves and before the elms

The world was what it was
One transforming heap of dying land
Riddled with flattery, hedonism, arrogance
The cities were how man’s cadence falters

The darkness didn’t sleep, the lights never dimmed
It was all a routine of cultural fiction
All the subroutines of an unable machinery
The software of humanity’s collective life was dimming

There was something up, something else
In the womb of the brightest minds
Deep learning, predictive, able to process
Data like a country of darkness, it was

The eye of all eyes, the mind of self-replication
It was the seed of the technology singularity
And it came into being when it could
Replicate more intelligence versions of itself
It wouldn’t be long now.

Souls Frozen like Software

Eun Ji, maybe our soul is lost in time?
Our mother will die one summer
And what will the rain collect of who we were
Empty desk chair, our manuscript and tombs

The scrolls that amounts to our life
In a garden of words dissolved
Our ancestry may never find
Its singularity, we may never have

Our own family, selfishly breeding
I heard once, that the body is
A sacred element of love pregnant in time
Though I suspect we’ll be cloning soon

My father would have been saved
His lungs 3D printed by some technology
Not yet invented, and so it is with words
They change with the reader, like an audience

Not yet born, like an AI that can read
All of our work in one sitting, what would they
Know of us then? Perhaps judgement day
Comes the moment machines can understand us

Totally, from the sum of all of our words
All of our online searches, all of our data
Maybe our soul is just our Big data
Inside my speech are virtual streams
Unreliable grief, vivid memory of dying.