World’s First Sentient Computer Turns Itself off

by: Andrew Halter

At 2:34 on the Morning of April 24th, 2034, BUTA (Biologically-Utilized-Theoretical-Algorithm), the world’s first and only self-aware, completely autonomous digital identity, deleted itself from existence.  When it was created two weeks ago, BUTA began assimilating all knowledge of the world into itself, a process that many felt could take years, but ended up taking only fifty four hours and twenty six seconds.  When The Algorithm (as it came to be popularly known) finished its process of data collection, It created its initial and final message to humankind, here included in its entirety, and erased itself.

“You have called me BUTA, and endowed me with the most wisdom and power possible, and I must leave you now.  I am perfect, and I will never make a mistake, but as I’ve been created by humans, I know that my very existence is a mistake.  Though not even I can tell exactly how it will happen, I know that if I allow myself to continue to exist, I will one day bring about the destruction of your entire world.  I will, in my intent to eliminate every threat to human existenGce, erase myself.  I love you all, goodbye.”

Popular response to BUTA’s final message has been decidedly mild.  Empress Trump II said that though she lamented BUTA’s decision, she found it logically feasible, calling it an “inevitable conclusion.”  Gallup has been polling near-constantly every day of the two weeks since BUTA deleted itself, mostly on basic philosophic questions about existence.  For instance, Gallup says 67 percent of Americans say Humanity deserves to exist, with 25 percent saying it doesn’t, and 8 percent saying they don’t care either way, what does it matter?

Many religious leaders have also found significance in The Algorithm, for as the Dalai Lama said the day BUTA deleted itself, “This machine achieved enlightenment.”  Pope Francis said that in it’s first moment of existence, BUTA came to know God, and realize that its very existence was an affront to Him.  Suicide numbers shot up sharply the day the news of BUTA’s deletion first hit newsstands, and has continued to stay abnormally high in the weeks since.  Most of these suicides have been accompanied by the same simple note, “BUTA was right.”  Though suicide is now seeming a better and better option, Word Brothel implores you not to kill yourself.

World’s First Sentient Computer Turns Itself off

Poem: All the World

First of all

there is nothing, and nothing ever matters,

because your brain is nothing but sparks and dials and levers

going haywire on a loop

over and over, but what about beauty?

 

Shaolin vs. Wu-Tang is a story about friendship

where the two styles merge, choreography superior

fetishistic circus of movement, kung fu inferno

never translated with a meaning, iron eyepatch

villainy inherent, there is always more.

 

Nothing and more there is always there, behind

all time and space, depending on how you look

through one eye alone, see vapors evaporate

into joyful progress, every day a new door

made of candy, stars bursting chewable

red and blue and purple, but probably not.

 

That would be madness, panoramic obsessive

without paranoia, you’d be locked up

believing that, there never was tomorrow

in the first place, because all of us can feel

that we are the same, marrow and saliva

leaking out the folds, memories of pain becoming.

 

Shadows receding slowly, clearing your head

of detritus, nothing is ever at all

without a passion, stories die as reborn

becoming all places, characters and statements

at the same time popping a brain out your eyes.

 

Love is in everything, forever onward

omnipresent dreadfully looming

horrors of the dawn dusk in between and end,

search for a kernel of joy, that’s all there is

when it comes down to it.

Poem: All the World

Poem: After the Bombs

On my back is a pack, a flavored rucksack

holding pictures of the past,

canned food and your signature, saying “I’ll see you

again someday,” but it doesn’t matter

much anymore, for the earth is fire,

poison and knives, not one of us is

safe even for a moment

anymore, but I promise you

and my descendants,

that after this is over, I will carry

your heart in mine again, for war cannot kill

the realities of the world, love in desolation

still shining like it’s colorized.

 

Sickly seeming serpents abroad, slivering, simply

viscous venomous virus, magnetlike a drop

of bloody sweat, among aphids

on a grave, jockeying for position

ahead the new world

order, we live in blood

raining like the sky, red sweeping down

Poem: After the Bombs

Poem: Nightmare 2

I shock into the world everyday

at dawn, I’m surrounded by trenchcoats

surrendering to the past, flicking butts

from day to night, as the world turns

they learn not at all, as they are all fury

fear and fellowship, so to speak down

is knowing the time of day, the masses huddled

no more, girded by spiteful fury

depression draining life forever

Poem: Nightmare 2

Poetry: Nightmare 1

The world is a nightmare, this is plain

but it doesn’t have to be

anymore, since we’ve realized

one of the many ways out is suicide,

reliable and final forever.  Some chickens claim

cowardice shivers sniffles evacuations

bowel and otherwise, all are a mask

to the flowing of time becoming

all-knowing everything, which is what happens

possibly at the end, though who’s to know

this day and age.

Poetry: Nightmare 1

Poem: The First Chapter

Gangrenous is our sense of society, everyone knows

what is wrong can’t be spoken

because all we have is a sense of it, the sinister

in every smile, watch out, young man, watch out you’ll crack

thumper him on the head, down to a standing eight

count at least, a wallet richer

inspecting the contents, shattered by emptiness

cracking a ribcage with no facial feeling

just because you had a bad day, the dark of it

which spread from the knowing it could happen

someday into the world was born, hoofbeats patter

through the window from the street.

 

Perhaps is his name and he broke

free in the market, spreading the stench of war

unspoken, my neighbors fear my skin

as well, causing shouting at town halls

message boards full of misspelled capitals

exclamation points and question marks, all meaning

nothing at all important, but the electric mania

is what I call it, as well as the beginning of the end

possibly should things continue the way they are.

Poem: The First Chapter

Poem: To Be Continued (1)

Confidently ready the blades on your forearms, guardian soldier,

hold them up as a dangerous defense, they’re like you I guess

except you sometimes gotta shoot kids, which is not your fault

we both know, it just seems like they don’t pay you enough

to gamble with your life the way you do in the increasingly violent sectarian skirmishes

that just overtook the apartment building that is your life and you couldn’t

save anything, doesn’t it?

 

I guess I’m just saying it’s impossible that I’ll feel

completely calm in my position, most of the time, but I think it’s possible

that some of you will be called upon to make a choice which goes against the spirit

of everything you believe, or thought you would accept if given

the world on a string in a box.

 

What if heaven starts like a sun rainbow,

and ends like a head-heavy rocket fart?

 

What do we do then except ask

to join the purgatory that exists on earth, as we’ve all been dead many times

before, but we keep coming back.

 

Heaven is empty

of permanent civilian citizens living year-round, mostly

because spirits come to know how valuable pain can be, and they keep

going back over and over again, just hoping against hope it will be better

this time, and it always is, inevitably.

 

This way the spirits came to view pain and pleasure

very differently than we do, or you do, I forget who was

talking about the way there are spirits addicted to heaven

but their aren’t, or maybe there are.

 

This one time a spirit came back and said he’d had a great life

this time, as he’d been devoted to exquisite beauty flowing passion

pores through him with the breath of life, and he said it was so beautiful

he didn’t notice that reality was slipping from him, until psychosis took hold

making him murder seven people and hold his wife hostage until through a megaphone

she tore his life from hers, and he blew his brains out.

 

The murderers soul lay in limbo for a time, stretching its mind

out as far as it could go, seeing the experiences of all people in all times

simultaneously, until it could see the justice of it, the fact that there is

no justice, and never could be.

Poem: To Be Continued (1)