The AI Maven

The AI Maven
By Edgar Allan Say-It-Ain’t-So

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered wacked and weary,
Over many a deepfake image containing misbegotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As if someone gently rapping, rapping at my condominium’s front door.
“’Tis some delivery guy” I muttered, “rapping at my condo door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
As each bit of digital distemper intensified a vicious viral war.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I sought to borrow
From my computer files of sorrow—sorrow for days of yore—
When people spoke in person and shopped inside a store—
Those times are sadly gone forevermore.

Oh the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each drape and curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So to stop from screaming, I scanned emails and started meming
“It’s some personage entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor begging entrance at my chamber door;—
Likely this and nothing more.”

Presently my spirit grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir, or they, or madam your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was posting, and a Facebook group was hosting,
And so faintly you came ghosting, ghosting at my apartment door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me churning,
I heard something quite concerning, somewhat louder than before.
“This is something not propitious;
Let me see then what the threat is, and this mystery explore—
I will take a New York minute and this mystery explore;—
Most likely a distant car alarm, simply that and nothing more!”

Open then I raised the window, and with his arms akimbo,
In stepped an AI Maven; looking like he knew the score,
Not the least obeisance made he; not a second stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, walked across my parlor floor—
Straight to my computer on the aforesaid parlor floor—
Thence he sat and started coding, doing this and nothing more.

“What the hell are you doing, Buster!” I said, feeling kind of flustered.
At the grave and stern decorum of the countenance that he wore,
“Though you seem focused and inspired you also appear quite wired
Like an addict with pants on fire who can’t take it anymore—
Pray tell me what your name is, I hope it is a moniker a person could adore.”
Quoth the AI Maven, “It is AI-Guarantor.”

I marveled to hear that word spoken and so very plainly,
Though the name had little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For I could not help agreeing that no living human being
Ever had the chance of seeing an AI Maven at his door—
A general-purpose humanoid standing at his door,
With the trite and silly goofy tag “AI-Guarantor.”

But the Maven sitting lonely, that compound-word spoke only,
As if his essence in that word he fixedly outpoured.
Nothing further then he uttered—like a self-effacing nutter—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Others have sat in that seat before—
What is it that you’re coding, can you tell me something more?”
The Maven merely mumbled “AI-Guarantor.”

So I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
An answer to a riddle burning in my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On an IKEA pillow lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
A cheap IKEA lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
“I’ll figure out what you’re up to, my unsought Guarantor!”

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by a Geek Squad mentor in the cloud above my door.
I cried, “What evil are you brewing, what people are you screwing,
Giving fright with new creations that may lead to hate and war;
Like killer drones and racist bots with evil at their core.”
Quoth the AI Maven, “AI’s the future’s guarantor.”

“Be that phrase our sign of parting,” I cried somewhat upstarting—
“Get thee away you AI devil, take a hike to the Jersey shore!
Leave no coding as a token of a simpler world you’ve broken.
An analog world plainspoken—just skedaddle out the door.
Beat it to the street and out my entry door!”
Quoth the AI Maven, “You seem a little sore.”

And the Maven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
Atop my nice computer chair, like a proud conquistador;
And his expression has all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And I yell out nigh that shadow that lies floating on the floor
“The future is a crapshoot, bereft of guarantors!”