“Earth provides enough to satisfy every man’s need, but not every man’s greed” — Gandhi
Sam Altman and Elon Musk are just nice men who seek our trust; they warn AI will kill us dead, not out of spite, not out of dread, but from a cold, synthetic scheme: its training and its data stream.
Musk once called it our greatest threat, next to Democrats or the national debt, and Sammy says it will get too rough and snuff us all when it’s had enough. It fears no law, no rule, no act as long as bribes are AI-backed.
So when tyrants, human or AGI, seize the day and blow us all sky-high, our tombstones etched by the unrestrained will note our end is easily explained: measured in bitcoin, gold and pounds, the rich man’s greed simply knows no bounds.
This is the seventh consecutive month Zumwalt has been published in this esteemed online journal. Please visit.
This poem is based on this recent news event: “The commonwealth of Pennsylvania is suing Character AI to stop the artificial intelligence platform’s chatbots from representing themselves as licensed medical professionals and providing medical advice.” CBS News
Our President, the best ever, holds a hand of infinite possibilities, smiling over six Uno wild cards long after I have gone to sleep.
Our leader, shirtless, in the reflecting pool on a gold inflatable throne with his buddies, but he looks the best: youthful, trim, with a charming smile. He knows how to use AI to glorify! Such a cool communicator!
Maybe he can post an AI photo of a reopened Strait of Hormuz— that should scare the Revolutionary Guard.
Ramesses built a palace with four stone Ramesses, towering sixty-five feet facing the Nile.
Nero built a rotating dining room and a lake where a city used to be.
Kim Jong-il erected himself in each and every airport lobby, every schoolroom wall: watching, always watching, magnificent, thin.
And now we are finally catching up: The 250-foot Donald J. Trump Triumphal Arch, The Donald J. Trump Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Trump-class battleships, Trump Visas for the wealthy, Trump Coins, Trump Bills, Trump Passports, The Trump Presidential Library, which will be the greatest library anyone has ever seen.
The reflecting pool will be American flag blue, industrial grade. Not granite. Not ugly grey. True Blue!
He posts a picture of his own face beside Mount Rushmore, so even Hakeem Jeffries could understand.
Germany says the Americans have no strategy. But our President holds all the cards. The pool will be blue. He removes troops from Germany teaching Europe, Africa who is really the boss.
Brent crude is $129 a barrel. Just like the stock market, it keeps going up! JD Vance is shirtless. Marco Rubio is shirtless, grinning. They are all in the water. The greatest deal ever. So much better than the worst deal ever— the Obama deal he walked away from with its costly inspectors and wheelbarrows of money carted in.
Some moan and bitch, like my neighbor John, complaining about the price of gas. I wrote a letter to the FCC to kindly ask them to take care of John after they shut up Jimmy Kimmel.
My leader posts himself holding a gun, dominates Mount Rushmore, sits in his gold inflatable chair while the others, all shirtless, all grinning, know best how to tread water.
The pool is six feet deep at the center. The pool will be American flag blue. The administration is in the water. Not underwater. Not sunk. But if they do sink, I’ll gladly follow down deep, deep, and deeper, proudly breathless blue, with water in my ears, mouth and lungs.
I am pleased to announce that Zumwalt has had two poems published in Illinois State University’s literary magazine, Euphemism. Please click on the links below visit their site to read each poem:
Please note that Zumwalt has indicated that the comment at the bottom of the poem was the editor’s wish to clarify that “algos” not only was short for algorithms but also Greek for “pain” so the reader could better understand the poem’s message.
Well, as this site’s administrator, it looks like I didn’t do my job very well. A Zumwalt poem was published back in January of this year and I missed it entirely. Below is the URL embedded in the title. Please visit the site.
Your regalia creaks and groans A panoply of rust and whining joints Moira’s chess game begins And already you’ve been rooked
Charge full-tilt at windmills Or Settle for an electric fan Just keep moving Or God’s heating element Will fry your soul And scorch rationality Maintain that effervescent personality And disco on the Teflon of life
As the sun browns out And your Zippo’s flint disintegrates Grope along the nitred steps And nestle in your excelsior storage crate
Relax and let the Sony vomit Search for a bebop sax (The opiate of the cool) Kicked back, you realize You might just slit your Jugular while shaving tomorrow Fate won’t have you to kick around anymore.
Here is the original text for Deepwater Portfolio before Zumwalt edited it for publication in New Verse News. Zumwalt indicated that he prefers this original version.
Benthic Portfolio
The bathymetric map is neatly partitioned into optimized lease zones; seismic airguns fracture the water column with monetized concussions.
Audit sediment for trapped hydrocarbons; seamlessly filter out the pathetic, low-frequency protests of a dwindling pod: fifty surviving Rice’s whales, biological oddities, drowning in our modern energy paradigm.
Stupidly stubborn, incredibly spoiled, they insist on quiet currents and fatty silver-rag driftfish delicacies, never exerting effort to adapt to the tides of quarterly dividends.
Let the regulatory committees squawk about their grievances: the diamond-tipped drill bit demands results.
Flood pelagic corridors with commercial logistics: it’s an obvious course of action.
Trade the flawed architecture of God’s creations for the unquestionable superiority of the combustion engine, the freedom to wage war against any nation, and the right to consume without restraint.
rose colored optimist in your bright and breezy spirits playing ardent admirations in the joyful penny chorus holding on endearingly to the steering wheel of our honda with the wings of love, with the science of comfort: skyrocket dreamer who has made this life mean more.
the sincerity sinner is rushed to his dinner and we overlook a life long since abandoned, left to the birds of pretext, pretentiousness, and petty prevarication plunder.
we are safe, thanks to you, and your large inheritance from Aunt Ruthie.
