Katie Cross Gibson

in memory of robin williams

are you not, in some way, artificial – at least in part?

—andrew martin

nodes and wires and pastes curl, weave through

your mess of copper coils, striving to seize neural

impulses, brain waves so grownups in white lab

coats can say whether your flailing’s normal, safe

excited twitching when considering exciting ideas

momentary short-circuiting, power-surging while

dreaming up make-believe scenarios in a six-

year-old mind. a profound transition from the

biological to the mechanical, a backward android

replacing gyri, electric folds of flesh with positronic

pathways, neural nets, a good night’s sleep with

electric sheep, plugging into wall outlet for nocturnal

recharge, acting as oversized rainbow nightlight

jerky diurnal movements, cattywampus turns of phrase

the 20gb hard drive soldered to cerebellum, wernicke’s

areas of your cyborg control center tinnily wheeze

in misguided attempt to display homo sapiens ease

though your calculations are correct, the execution’s

just off. such an unsettling sound to the humanoids

especially other girls and boys who recoil then erase

you from memory, act as if you’re never to be seen

you try to assuage them you’re not as glitched as

it seems but they won’t open thoracic compartment

to watch your bionic heart beat. that’s why people don’t

always like or understand you are a magnificent

machine. there is no price for individuality.

so if ever approached by northam robotics, vow you’ll

accept mansky’s offer of (re)programming reset to escape

this limbo, this entanglement of impulsive muscle, kinetic

meat—a full reformat, squeaky cleaned. you know

you can’t invest your emotions in a machine.

sometimes it’s important to do the wrong thing.