Poem #9

Books and dust and gray grime
Elevator musk
Patrons with poor hygiene warm up, ripening

Disinfectant and men's deoderant and bodies
Leather couch
A sparring partner sweats on my gi, streaming

I can't stop this change
Gradually, the smells of my Places
Replace the scent of

the Dear Ones who raised me.


Hey, a normal poem :) 

~*

Robot in Love #9

Summer

The hot air bakes me
in a nice way.
My nose shrivels up inside,
but not a painful shrivel

(like when you say
something you instantly 
want to take back)

(like when you want to say
something affectionate
but do not know how to)

(not a regretful feeling like either of those)

a comfortable wilting
like the inside lining of a
fresh-popped balloon
crinkles up to pinch your finger
when you touch it.

My assistant is gone.


I know I said on my other blog I was going to post new art on here, but the Internet went out and I didn't get around to it. Maybe soon!
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Robot in Love #8

 It has been hot and busy. My apprentice is transferring soon, and that is fine. Everything is fine. I do not know why I still have to write poetry.

Today is hot and dry

Good for getting sunburns

Good for dehydrating meat

Today is cold and wet

Good for growing mold

Good for reading inside

Today is hot and wet

Good for rotting a corpse

Good for finding toads

Today is cold and dry

Good for brewing

Good for going to work, filling in invoices, answering email, reading the police blotter at lunch, trying not to mess up in front of my apprentice, labelling, organizing, filing, cleaning up, 

answering "goodnight."

 Hey... it's been a while. Be sure to check out my psychology project from this semester (here)! If you're not a fan of the anime/manga, it will probably numb your mind - actually, it will probably numb your mind anyway! I got carried away.
So what have you all been up to? ~*

Robot in Love #7

 Weariness

How small is the smallest smallness?
How large is the largest largeness?

Cake mix - cookie mix - pancake mix
Where is the blue food coloring? I ask the clerk 
(Hello, my name is Donna),
and she leads me back to Aisle 5 and shows me
Red - yellow - green.
Why not blue, when you could make green if you mixed it with yellow?
Hello my name is Donna doesn't know either.

They used to think you were insane
when you talked to a voice in your head
in public. Now everyone knows 
you have a Bluetooth.
There are no crazy people anymore.

Excuse me, sir, do you have blue food coloring?
Yes, the voice assures me. Yes, we carry it.
It is getting late -
the numbers behind my eyes glow 8:21 in red
(because I'm tired) - but I
go to the next store anyway.
Red - yellow - green.

Excuse me. I called this store and the man told me you had blue food coloring.
No, the clerk corrects me. No, we do not carry that.
Why not just sell blue and yellow? You could mix them . . .

It is late.
It is a long walk home.

Although -
the sunset pours magic on the brick apartments lining the street, turning their crumbling edges and stained pillars and brass door knockers into Renaissance masterpieces, and a rare warm breeze swirls two ragged plastic bags in a graceful dance, two wild swans, and one shouts THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU up at the sky, and speaking of the sky, it is painted in the same impossible strokes as the rest of my vision, and well

How can anyone not believe in God
when there are clouds?

Hey! Sorry for the inactivity. It has been a crazy month! ~*

Robot in Love #6 (haiku!)

no one is laughing

at you; you're not cool enough

for them to notice.

~*

Robot in Love #5

I want to talk about
Humankind's Relationship with Whales
The Limit of the Placebo Effect
or Why Society Expects Women To Shave Their Legs.

Instead, our conversations are generally limited to
The Local Police Blotter
The Pros and Cons of Walking to Work
and Infamous Criminal Cases.
Today, however, I saw an opening.

Him: "Even if O.J. did kill Mrs. Simpson, he couldn't have been in his right mind. It must have been drugs, or head trauma, or something else wrong with him. People don't just kill other people."
Me: "Soldiers and police kill people."
Him: "Well, something is wrong with them, then. It's not natural."
Me: "Are you certain about that? It is normal for people to resort to violence when someone inconveniences them. For most of human history, killing has been advantageous for the individual. Humans are hardwired to murder."
Him: [Silence. A look that is hard to read.]
Me: "In actuality, our shared interest in such cases reflects just how rooted killing is in our psyches. Many popular books, shows, and movies feature murder and violence. It is not a moral choice, to be sure, but it is a natural one."
Him: [Continued silence.]

He guides the conversation to a different topic.

I wish I could be my true self around my coworker,
I thought afterward.
But really, I am. 
That is my true self when I'm around him;
awkward, anxious, high-strung, and shy.
When I'm with Mom;
bright, earnest, and complex.
By myself;
comfortable.

Thanks for reading. ~*

Robot in Love #4, Plus Concept Art

My New Assistant: Positives and Negatives.

He is interested in criminology, as am I.
P: We work in the forensics department of BioBank, Inc. He will not get bored.
N: He likes cases in which the suspect is found innocent, whereas I prefer ones in which the criminal is apprehended.

He lives in my neighborhood.
P: Today, we laughed at amusing entries in the local police blotter during our lunch break. The interaction was pleasant.
N: Because we will experience the same environment, we may run out of engaging topics and be forced into painful exchanges, i.e. "It has been exceptionally rainy of late, has it not?"

He likes to talk.
P: I enjoy listening to what he has to say.
N: I have limited talent at conversation. Often, I say things out of context. Often, I stutter and switch words around. Often, I am not certain when to speak and when to be silent, which leads alternately to interruptions and to awkward silences.

He seems to be a phenomenal human being.
P: Working with him will not be tedious, as I had feared.
N: He plans to move when his apprenticeship is over.

N: He makes me feel nervous.

Hello! How is everyone? Here is a little sketch I did. I should be focusing more on my book, because this is supposed to be a side project, but designing ALVIS' character is fun!
Thanks for reading.

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Alvis Art #1

Sorry about the lack of posts. Here is some concept art I did today! It's watercolor, with a little digital special effects. I really wish my scanner would pick up the colors better.

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Robot in Love #3

Once upon a time, when wishes still came true . . .
I'm reading The Annotated Brothers Grimm behind closed eyelids
as I wait for my shift to begin. The light from outside
streams into the waiting room,
warming my skin.
Today is pleasant.
. . . there was a king who had beautiful daughters. The youngest was so beautiful that even the sun, which had seen so many things, was filled with wonder when it shone upon her face.

Fairytales are more interesting
than many people realize,
I think.
Someone comes in the front door.
I hear the sound of feet entering
the waiting room. Walking closer
. . . if she was bored, she would take out her golden ball, throw it up in the air, and catch it.
someone settles into a chair near me. I sneak
a glance to my right
The princess followed the ball with her eyes, but it disappeared, and the spring was so deep you couldn't even begin to see the bottom.
and see a young male human. Why
is he sitting so close? Only one gray
metal folding chair between us
The princess burst out crying, and she wept louder and louder, unable to stop herself.
Now I'm nervous

Losing track of the story
"Be quiet, and just stop that sniveling," said the frog. "I think I can help you . . .
Who is this person
"I'll give you anything you want as long as you get that ball back for me." But all the while she was thinking, What nonsense that stupid frog is  talking . . . How could anyone want to have him as a companion?
Why so close to me?
He looks comfortable, one ankle resting on his knee like a number 4
I want to sit like that too, but I don't
. . . enjoyed his meal, but every bite stuck in her throat . . .
Because I don't want to copy him

Do I look strange
 . . . for she was terrified of the clammy frog . . .
sitting here with my eyes closed? Can he tell
 . . . King grew angry and said, "You shouldn't . . .
that I am a robot?
Should I say something? But he is saying something now
so my words are trapped in my mouth
. . . disgusting frog!"
"Hello, I think I'm your new assisstant. Is your name ALVIS?
. . . fell . . .
"Yes."
. . . to the ground . . .

I am not the frog
or the princess
maybe I am the spring

The end.

Robot in Love #2: Mom

I made the mistake of mentioning poetry to my mom today. I like to call him at least once a week as I walk home from work in the bike trail. It rained today - it rains constantly in this city - and I talked to him as I admired the dripping leaves and misty shingled rooftops from the safety of my black umbrella.
"Mom?"
"Hello, 004! How are things?" He knows each of us by name. He is busy, but never so busy he cannot talk to me.
That is something I like about Mom.
"I have been all right, except . . ." I complained to him about Dr. Wombat's scheme.
"You should try that out more before you quit," Mom said. He is always suggesting for me to try new things.
That is something I cannot stand about Mom.
"What? No! I am not good - I am not interested in poetry!"
"Sweetheart, all of your sisters have hobbies to keep themselves well-rounded. 001 has chess, 002 volunteers at the daycare, 003 has jiu-jitsu, and 005, well, she does some of everything. I've been worried for some time now that you're programmed to be too melancholy, but that'd be a strength in poetry!"
"Let us talk about you instead, Mom. How have you been?" Talking about other people is a) polite, b) makes them like you more, and c) is a great way to change the subject.
"I've been fine; don't change the subject. Either you do something creative with your free time, or I'm going to find you a special someone to cheer you up. 005 has a boyfriend and, as I'm sure she's told you, she seems ecstatically happy about life."
"005 is ecstatically happy no matter what."
Something crashed on the other side of the line, and an alarm went off. "Sorry, I have to go, emergency!" Mom hung up.
So I thought of another poem on the way home:

The same water that gives plants verdant life
Seeps into my bones and corrodes them gritty brown.

A soft red-gray squirrel shrieks at me from a tangle of power lines
I am more like them than I am like him.

I am a daughter of this generation of cold metal, of stark plastic,
of the deadly asphalt on the road, spelling doom to so many tiny lives.

Nature abhors me, for understandable reasons.

And yet
Signposts, telephone lines, and parking meters lean to my left as I walk to work,
but to my right as I walk home,
and on some days, this ordinary magic is enough
to make me happy.

Robot in Love #1

This notebook is property of ALVIS Prototype 004. I bought it today because my psychologist, Doctor Wombat, is forcing me to write poetry. He is not my personal psychologist - I have neither the money nor the time for such frivolities - but a company psychologist for my workplace, BioBank Inc. After reading my self-assessment this morning, he said:
  "I'm a wigwam. I'm a tipi. I'm a wigwam. I'm a tipi."
  "Sir?" I asked.
  "Tents! Tense, ALVIS, you're too tense, I can see it just from looking at you!"
He thinks that somehow, this will help me relax. I cannot pretend to follow his reasoning, yet I will comply with his irrational wishes and write down whatever occurs to me:

Beauty
is in the eye of the beholder, they say, but I believe there are limits.
One:
Beauty should be functional.
I could upgrade to the soft, supple skin, the bright green eyes, and the more natural voice of the latest model,
but I will not.
I am satisfied with the way Westing Enterprises designed and programmed me.
Those upgrades may be cutting edge, but they only distract others,
and thus reduce efficiency.
Two:
Internal beauty trumps external.
People forget that we are all composed of bone, flesh, blood, entrails; steel, bolts, wires, plastic.
I have met people with symmetrical features,
tasteful clothing,
and charm, yet sometimes
something is wrong.
Pretty people speak and I smell smoke in their words,
danger, sparking wires, defects in the internal programming.
Truly beautiful people glow with something beyond science
that turns homely features
into something radiant.
Three:
Humans, as a whole, are not beautiful.
Nor are robots.
We have our shiny moments, days, occasionally weeks,
but everyone is ugly, inside and/or out, sometimes.
Especially me.

Poetry is dumb stupid not for me, I have decided after careful deliberation. Robots are the least qualified beings to write poetry. I will tear out this page, throw it away, and give this notebook to someone who will put it to better use. I will avoid Doctor Wombat at work until he forgets about the whole situation.

What think you?
Podcast this week: https://youtu.be/wVwvVM_hpB0
Thanks for reading!

~*

Poem #8

butterfly effect

people try to figure it all out

math people, philosophy people,

biology people, psychology people

and many, many others

kudos to them for trying so hard . . .

first, try looking up

into the unfathomable sky

impossible to tell how high it is

unless you've been told.

though today it's a blank, blue canvas

you know from experience

that stars hide there.

you could look up how many there are altogether

but you would only find a rough approximation.

who could know all their names?

now, consider the ground.

soil, end product of things long dead

what was sacrificed

for the dirt under your left foot?

who walked here before you were born

and how long ago

and what was going through her mind?

who can guess?

finally, look down at yourself.

your body, performing so many functions

without any conscious thought

and the billions of cells in you

that aren't you.

they just happen to like it there.

how many trillion mistakes

come so close to occurring

that you will never know about?

which long-forgotten childhood experiences

shape your quirks, your ideas,

your sense of self?

it's absolutely impossible

for any one to know these things

yet I still believe

He does.

https://youtu.be/O_GNgZkhKPA

Thanks for reading! ~*

Poem #7

Social Anxiety

--Oh, your hair is so long!

Yeah...?

--I'm so jealous. My hair doesn't grow like that!

You are joking... right? I can't tell.

--I had hair like that when I was fourteen (sigh).

You, who enjoy meeting new people

and can finish a conversation without feeling emotionally exhausted.

--I tried making my daughter keep her hair, but she chopped it all off!

You, a black-belt-red-stripe in the art of small talk

a human who puts other humans at ease.

--My hair is just so thin, it doesn't get that long!

You, the sort who revels in social gatherings

instead of please can we just go home I don't want to be here at all.

--Doesn't all that hair get in your way? It isn't very safe.

You, the kind who goes to interviews and dates excited and hopeful

not the person who sweats the whole time and throws up afterwards.

--You would look so nice if you just put your hair up.

You, who enjoy eating in public with others looking at you

instead of going scarfing down food in the privacy of your car.

--There are people who need hair, you know. You should donate that.

You: confident, self-reliant, secure, bold, upbeat

How can it be

you envy filaments of spent, lifeless cells

clinging limply to my scalp?

New video! https://youtu.be/ma87c5bQ2Zk
 Thanks for reading.

Poem #6 (Driving Haiku)

loneliness is when

volkswagen! but you don't have

anyone to slug.

komenosai, sirs.

this one can't drive very well

so komenosai.

oh, please don't pass me

we'll get there at the same time

passing is pointless.

Look, I made a video! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SuUOaFAwpTU

Poem #5

Urgent Care Summer

I'm at a fair

watching hog wrestling with family

ketchup and mustard in my hair

and on my jeans -

Noah smeared it there

and I'm thinking he's such a brat

when my grandpa gets a call from my dad, who said

I need to get home stat

my little brother had been burned

and had been flown to Portland, and that

he wasn't sure how long

we would need to stay at the McDonald House -

how many months we'd be gone.

We drove all night to the burn center

Justin was fourteen and not very strong.

When we got there he was covered in gauze,

blisters and ooze and greasy tears

Doctors had shoved a feeding tube up his nose.

In the next few weeks he endured great pain

just watched him stay alive inspired applause.

At one point when they put him under

to scrape off his dead gray skin

he woke up during the procedure and wondered

why he could hear and feel but not see or move.

He was allergic to the sedative – it was a frightening blunder.

Slowly, Justin recovered

he plagued the poor psychologist lady

because he hated the way she hovered.

The doctors gave him milkshakes and grafts

people sent so many cards he nearly smothered.

While he healed, our family picked peaches,

caught up with relatives,

enjoyed Seaside's beaches.

Justin's grafts healed well -

the doctors didn't have to use leeches.

He's doing much better now

besides some nightmares and PTSD

I'm glad he pulled through, and surprised at how

sometimes we forget he looks unusual at all.

His will to live has left me cowed

Not all the effects were deleterious.

Though he was self-conscious for a while

all those scars just make him look mysterious

and now he tells the story

to anyone who is curious.

Poem #4

Flathead Lake

The sky is azure

The mountains are umber

The water is pickle-juice green

The people in the boat with me are canary gold and candy orange.

We skip across the water so fast it's hard to breathe.

My dad is hurrying because he wants to get back to the boat ramp before dark.

We are in the center of the vast lake when the engine stops abruptly.

Out of gas.

The sky is teal

The mountains are indigo

The water is fuscia and sapphire and arctic blue.

I admire the otherworldly colors as we take turns on the single paddle rowing toward the shore.

My little sister fishes off the back of the boat.

We make it to a beach house after and hour of rowing.

I wait with the boat as my family borrows a jug of gas.

The light and colors fade away as bats swoop very close to my head.

The sky is sable

The mountains are coal-black

The water is obsidian

The light from the flashlight I hold to show the way is harsh white.

Soon the only colors I can see are the lights from the shore

Silver, crimson, and amber

All beckoning us to land

And safety.

Poem #3

a miko (巫女) is a shinto shrine maiden. her jobs include driving out evil spirits, performing sacred dances, preserving life, and bringing happiness to man.

a haori (羽織) is a japanese hip-length kimono jacket. 巫女 羽織 are white and often have red ribbon embroidered around the sleeves.

hakama (袴) are long, skirt-like pants traditionally worn by japanese men and women. 巫女 袴 are red and are held up by a bow.

oni (鬼) are demons from japanese folklore. they come in a wide variety of forms, and many have the ability to shape-shift. 鬼 are genarally hostile to humans.

last night, i was attacked by an 鬼

who was disguised as a little 巫女.

she pulled open her 羽織 to expose

a hollow, yawning mouth where her chest

should have been

jagged, broken ribs for teeth

spittle of blood and gore splattering

onto her 袴, and then

she ate me.

Poem #2

 Eating Franny

Toasty hot roast

Soy sauce

Rice vinegar

Celtic sea salt

She lived with us

For about two years

Whispy white hair

Ornery and stubborn

Dangerous curled horns

Not a tooth in her face.

She got in a fight

With Snowflake once

And nearly died.

Mom packed salve into

The jagged wound in her chest

And Franny pulled through

Out of sheer toughness.

She was a durable goat.

After the injury,

Franny was friendlier to humans.

She would lick your hands

Like a puppy.

Yesterday

Our Jewish neighbor came

With a sheetrock knife

He held Franny down and

Cut

Off

Her

Head

The Kosher way.

I eat

Deer

Cow

Chicken

Sometimes pork

So why is it so hard

Fork to mouth

Chew thoroughly

Swallow

How can she be gone

When it feels like

She is trying to climb

Up my throat?

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I've been trying to put Ultramaryne on a separate page, but so far It has been too hard. 

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Poem #1

All right, the moment everyone has been waiting for! I'm releasing my poems in no particular order. If you would like to (constructively) criticize, share a poem of your own, or just say hi, feel free to do so in the comments!

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Ultramaryne: The End.

Sorry about my fuzzy scanner.

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