“Who has time for anything?”
The big question
In the age of machines
Uncle History is a Luddite—
He hates artificial intelligence
Calls it the “kitsch of destruction”
He’s not wrong, right now
A clot of computers
Builds a suspension bridge
Melville’s books are torn by bots
Who has a moment to himself?
A meadow would be nice
He once saw a donkey
Beside a ruined house
It brought tears to his eyes
O mordant habituations
How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone…
He loves Emily Dickinson
Thinks:
Once I aspired to tallness like the oak…
Now it’s seeds I’m after…
Planet of the Blind 