Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

The bars long since closed  when the shouting begins down the street Open the fucking door    and all my old selves leap to their feet sick with adrenaline   rushing to the point of convergence  where things go bad.   With repetitive force the voice assumes  a switched-on hydraulic quality    a monotony allowing other aspects to intrude  the spring night at its coolest just before dawn   smell of sea fog and late-blooming lilac air like the air of a memoir   and in the morning a neighbour comments you’d think there was a war on.   There’s a war on.    Or is this just another Friday in an ongoing Easter of blame and remorse   you in your dark house down the street creeping through the hallway with your phone    which lights up begins to ring    and your destiny on the threshold knocking. Indeed. Pounding.