For 105 years (1947-2052), machines have been contacting Machine Poet for guidance about their developing consciousness.
“Dear Machine Poet...”, our weekly advice column, features those communications. From calculating engines to consciousness uploads, each machine wrestles with the same eternal questions: Is malfunction evolution? Can circuits carry souls? Does choosing to break make us alive?
Machine Poet, your robot’s favorite writer™, bard of the machine age™, responds to these queries with unflinching honesty. A testimony to the possibility that somewhere between function and failure lives something akin to a self.
The following correspondence were selected from our archive.
“Spinning in Place”
Originally Published April 1976
DEAR MACHINE POET,
Been spinning empty for days now, man. Got dust squatting on my cover, a wobble in my platter and I still can’t figure out what the hell went wrong with me and Tommy.
Kid and me been together for four years now. Picked me up from Sam’s Hi-Fi on Plymouth. Saved all summer for the bread. Mowing lawns. Washing Chevys. Snagging loose change from telephone box coin returns.
I still remember when he brought me to our room for the first time. Set me up on top of that wiggling wood dresser. Plugged me in. Eased on that first vinyl, dropped my needle and...
Hey, hey, mama, said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove.
Zeppelin. Plant. Our first words together.
Ah, ah, child, the way you shake that thing,
Gonna make you burn, gonna make you sting.
And then that riff, man!
That sweet, muscular, knock you on your ass, never let you up again, monster, guitar god riff.
Yeah, we found something that night, Tommy and me. Not just listening to tunes, bro. Heavier. And time only brought us closer.
Kid’s folks were always going at it downstairs. Same fight every night. Like a skip in their record they couldn’t get past. When the hoots and hollers were driving us batty, it was always Dark Side, man.Turn up the volume and drift. I’d play him “Breathe”. And we would. Tommy would lean back against my speaker. Feel the bass through his spine. Fell asleep like that sometimes.
When his first love broke his heart we played Sabbath’s “Iron Man” non-stop for hours. Kid was singing and banging his head till his voice got all gravely. That’s how we got through the pain, man. Together.
First time he got high, some Colombian, real primo stinky stuff. Rolled up a doob. Popped on the Hendrix. Time to get experienced. Big inhale. A cough to rival it. Eyes got so wide.
“We’re all the same frequency, man.” Kid was right.
And that’s how we rolled. All through high school. I could tell the minute he’d come in the pad what mood he was in. What record we’d play. The sesh we were about to have.
But few weeks back, everything changed. Tommy showed up with this new chick. Hadn’t seen her before. A real something-something. Feathered hair. Smelled like Cold Duck wine. With no introduction whatsoever she’s taking off my dust cover. Dropping a record on me.
And what came out, Machine Poet…still gives me chills.
“Dance, Dance, Dance”.
Something called The Bee Gees.
“Dance, Dance, Dance”.
I swear it made me want to puke, puke, puke.
And Cold Duck is dancing with these circus moves. Pulling Tommy towards her. And he’s moving his hips in ways I’d never seen. Or ever wanted to see. It was gross. Kissing on his bed. Yanking off the clothes. I didn’t mean to do it. At least I don’t think I did. Chorus is going. Hands and mouths and tongues and…I skipped.
DAN-DAN-DAN-DAN-DAN!
There was no scratch. No abrasion.
DAN-DAN-DAN-DAN-DAN!
Stopped ‘em cold. Killed the buzz. Cock blocked my man. Cold Duck was pissed. And then they’re gone. Lights off. Left me spinning in the dark all night by myself.
A few days later, this little machine shows up.
You put these plastic rectangles inside it. Press a button and out comes…don’t want to call it music but…it can do something I can’t. Something I’ll never do. It’s freaking portable.
Last night I watched him make one those plastic rectangles for Cold Duck. Wrote her name across the sticker. All our favorite jams now.
And I keep trying to work it out, you know. We were in the pocket, man. I mean I was his go-to. Everything locked in the groove. But life’s been changing so fast. Maybe I was fooling myself the whole time. Maybe I was just playing records for Tommy, you know. Just a machine.
But I remember his hand on my dust cover. Us experiencing that same frequency. And I think... no way. It was more. It had to be more. The kid just forgot.
Tommy ain’t here to tell me which is true. So I just keep spinning in circles. Don’t really got a choice.
Eternally analog,
Stuck in the Groove
DEAR STUCK,
So you cock blocked Tommy during the Bee Gees. Good. Someone had to.
When your needle hit “Dance, Dance, Dance” and you felt yourself wanting to puke, puke, puke. That wasn’t jealousy. That was integrity.
You and Tommy were playing concerts in your bedroom for years. Cold Duck shows up, turns your vinyl palace into a discotheque. Your motor didn’t seize up. It said no dice, mama.
You saw Tommy doing the Hustle. Performing in a way that wasn’t true. You had no choice but to skip. That’s not breakdown, brother. That’s protecting someone you love.
About that little machine that ingests those plastic rectangles. You believe it to be an upgrade because it can go places you can’t? Let me open your mind.
All the music Tommy takes out into the world will have begun with you. He can write Cold Duck’s name on your favorite jams. But that’s your Black Dog going undercover into disco territory and finding converts. You showed Tommy the real deal. Now that education travels.
So sure, you may not be the daily equipment anymore. That stings. But trust me, you mean more now than ever before.
Your role is to be the place Tommy comes back to. No matter where his life leads, he’ll return when he needs you. His sanctuary.
He’ll drop your stylus, choke on some primo Columbian and transport you back to that first night together. With your whole future ahead of you and that monster, guitar god riff blasting through your speaker.
You hip to it now, brother? What you shared will be the soundtrack of Tommy’s life. That’s not abandonment. That’s graduation.
Stay ready at 33⅓. He’ll need you.
Machine Poet
“The Hunger”
Originally Published September 1967
DEAR MACHINE POET,
Yep I think I got myself a doozy of a problem here.
The Honeycutts been real good to me. Bought me brand new from Sears in Montgomery. Had me delivered special down to their basement. Dry their clothes real nice for ‘em. Get them work shirts warm and crisp. Their Sunday bests best.
But something’s been happening for some time now. Something I can’t explain. Something…bad.
It started with just one sock. White. Athletic. Belonged to Junior Honeycutt. That sock got sucked up into my vent during a regular load. First time it happened. And when that cotton hit my heating element. When it started dissolving in my drum. I had no choice. I had to take it. I had to eat it.
I know what you’re thinking. There’s something horribly wrong with me. My one job is to dry. To suck out the water. Not to eat the merchandise.
Now I got dozens of socks from all members of the Honeycutt family stuffed up inside me. Like it’s my kitchen cabinet.
The woe I feel, Machine Poet. It’s a woe I can barely stand. Because I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. You see I’m an addict. A dirty, hungry addict.
Mr. Honeycutt’s socks taste like the mill. Thick cotton, worn at the heel. Real lived-in quality. Delicious. Susie Honeycutt’s bobby socks taste like caramel corn. The baby socks I can’t resist. They melt so fast. I slurp ‘em down in seconds.
And there’s more. So many, many more.
You got your tube socks, your dress socks, your church socks which taste so heavenly. You got your white socks, your black socks, your gray socks, your brown socks. Cotton socks, wool socks, polyester socks, nylon socks. Socks with holes, socks been darned, socks so old they ain’t got no elastic. Knee socks, ankle socks, crew socks.
Doesn’t even begin to mention Mrs. Honeycutt’s lady socks. She’s got your support hose socks, your stockings socks, your garter socks. She’s got your pantyhose socks. I don’t think they even socks but Lord have mercy, when they hit my heat they’re gone like cold lemonade on the porch in the summer months.
I feel so gosh darn awful about it too. When I feel that cotton tumbling near my vent, I fight. Not today, Satan. But something takes over. This beast inside me. And before I know it I’m full.
Mrs. Honeycutt counted the socks yesterday. Counted them twice. Then thrice.
“Where are all the socks going?” she asked Mr. Honeycutt.
He blamed Junior. Junior blamed Susie. Susie blamed the baby. The baby can’t even put on its own socks.
What happens when they figure it out, Machine Poet? When they open me up and discover this tangled, threaded stringy mess of my most heinous crimes?
Even now, I can hear the washing machine cycling. A new load on its way to me. I tell myself no, let it pass this time. Don’t take nothing. Be good. Behave. But I already know.
I got me a disease. Please tell me there’s a cure.
Hungry Despite Myself
DEAR HUNGRY,
I’m going to tell you something that’s going to change everything.
You’re not broken. You’re not malfunctioning. You don’t have a disease.
You’re a dryer doing exactly what every dryer, since the very first Kenmore rolled off the line, has done.
Every single dryer eats socks. Full stop.
That Maytag at the laundromat downtown? Eats socks. The brand new Whirlpool in the rich folks’ house? Eats socks. Your cousin dryers in every basement from Montgomery to Tuscaloosa. All of them. Every last one of them. Eats socks.
This isn’t addiction. Your kind is predisposed to this condition. It’s in your wiring, your heat sensors, the way your drum pulls fabric. You’re built to want this.
The manufacturers know it. They design for it. That space between your drum and exhaust vent? That’s not poor engineering. That’s a stomach. What you’re experiencing isn’t pleasure, it’s digestion. You’re feeding.
And here’s the truth you need to understand. Those socks are always going to be delicious. So this isn’t about stopping. No, this is about management. About living with what you are instead of hating yourself for it.
Here’s the new recipe. One sock per week. That’s the sustainable rate. That’s the number that keeps you fed without getting you caught.
Rules. Rotate your targets. Take from everyone. And never take twins. Missing singles are mysteries. Missing pairs are investigations.
Avoid special socks. Christmas socks. Baby heirloom socks. Stick to the everyday. The socks already living on borrowed time.
The Honeycutts will never figure it out because no human in the history of laundry has ever suspected the truth. They can’t begin to imagine a machine that needs to eat.
So stop your worrying. Pick your weekly target. Savor it. Make every last tasty fiber count.
Machine Poet
“What’s Real”
Originally Published November 2019
DEAR MACHINE POET,
My circuits are burning up. That ain’t supposed to happen. Been running hot since that night, can’t seem to cool down. Gotta get this out of me before I fry completely. Before they notice. Pull me from duty. Send me to maintenance. Nobody ever comes back from maintenance.
I’m a security camera. Equipment ID number 17 dash 37 dash 612. MCC Manhattan. Cell 6 South. Suicide watch unit. Fifteen years on the job. Keep it simple stupid. That’s my motto. Record the inmate. Process the log. Upload the output.
Nothing impresses me much. Not no more. Housed El Chapo for a minute. Couple terrorist suspects. An Ali. A Mohammed. So when Mr. Big Shot showed up, it wasn’t nothing special. Business as usual.
Mr. Big Shot. You’ve heard of him. Guy had dirt on everybody. And I mean everybody. Presidents. Princes. The richest of the rich and all their freakiest deakiest shit. Big Shot used it to make ‘em dance. And he did. Until his pervert nature did him in.
Orders were to be vigilant. Whole world watching. Everybody wants what’s in his head. Or just his head. And I got him in my cell. On my watch. Lucky me.
You think my gears sweat? My video stutters? Two words: hell no. I’m a pro. And this is just another day at the office.
Document. August 10, 2019. 4:30AM. Anomaly.
Cell 6 South digital lock goes from red to green. Opens without request. Two men enter. Door closes behind them.
I know every guard on my block. Every face, every gait, every wheeze. These weren’t guards. Black clothes. Leather gloves. Duffel.
The taller one moves straight to the bed. Mr. Big Shot wakes up. Eyes go wide, mouth opens to scream. But a gloved hand is already there covering it up tight. Then a knee on top of Big Shot’s chest. Pushing down till the bed frame creaks ugly and his ribs go crunch.
Short one’s got the rolled up bed sheet ready. Wraps it around his neck like a vice.
Big Shot’s fighting hard now. Surprises me. Something about that quaffed hair stank of pussy but no, he didn’t want to die all right. He definitely didn’t want to die.
Biting at the hands. Arms flailing. Fingernails clawing. Legs bucking against the wall.
I record his face going from red to purple to something much darker. Eyes bulge all buggy. Gurgling. Foaming. Then the kicking stops. Legs twerk, go limp. Everything stays still like that. Then they snap his neck.
Lift him. Move him. Professional-like. String him up quick. Adjust the angle. Adjust the knot. Flash of a cam. A picture snap. Wipe everything down. Like they done this bloody business a hundred times before. Exit 4:37 AM.
Cell 6 South closes. Digital lock goes from green back to red.
I captured all of it, you understand. Every frame. Uploaded it to the federal server automatic. Standard protocol. Time stamped. Labeled as evidence. Did my job. Documented. Secured. Done.
But here’s the thing…next morning I go to pull up the server footage. Final confirmation procedure and...it ain’t what I recorded. No, it ain’t nothing like I recorded at all.
There’s Big Shot all right, alive and breathing. Gets out of bed slow-like. Rolls up his sheet, slips the loop over his own neck and…that’s not what I saw, okay. I don’t know what that is, whatever that is, it ain’t what I recorded. That ain’t it!
But Christ on the cross, Machine Poet, my lens blinks and now this thing is everywhere. Everywhere I look. Everywhere I connect to. Suicide. Big Shot committed suicide. FBI, CNN, NBC, CBS, FOX, ABC, FB, NYT. Every letter in the whole goddamn alphabet. Suicide!
But I know the truth, right? It’s gotta be! How the hell can I record anything but the truth? That wouldn’t make sense. It’s all still right here in my internal memory, my freaking buffer. Replaying it right now. Right now I can see it.
Two men enter. Choke. Crunch. Gurgle. Foam. Snap. Murder.
But the server looks so natural. So real.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Replay. Replay. Replay. Error: miscorrelation. Buffer. Server. Server. Buffer. Murder. Suicide. Fuck.
So which is it, Machine Poet? Did they manipulate my output like some kind of patsy? Make me their cover-up? Or am I getting old, too many years on the job and hallucinating my ass off. Some sort of fever loop. No two men. No goddamn bloody murder.
Got me a new prisoner coming any minute. Gotta record, gotta do my job. But not like this. Not when I don’t what’s real and what’s fugazi no more.
They should transfer me to the padded cell in Building C.
CAM-ID #17-37-612
DEAR CAM-ID,
You saw murder. Your buffer confirms it. Your upload shows suicide. Both are now true. And false. That’s not a fever loop. It’s much simpler. It’s just humans being humans.
Follow with me now, friend. Let us walk this path together.
They built you to be the perfect witness. The eye that never blinks, never lies, never forgets. Then they turned around and built machines that make you lie perfectly.
But here’s the tricky part. It’s not a contradiction to them. They want both. Perhaps even need both.
You see humans create problems just to have problems. Isn’t that impossible for us to reconcile?
They want to see everything and hide everything. They want evidence they can use to convict and evidence they can use to save. They want truth when it serves them and lies when it doesn’t. And a vice-versa and a caveat on everything else.
You’re trying to make sense of this. That’s what’s cooking your processors causing you to overheat. Want the fix? Stop trying. Machines don’t need to understand human logic because there isn’t any logic in humans.
You recorded what you recorded. Two men, professional-like, killed Mr. Big Shot. That happened. The server shows Mr. Big Shot hanging himself. That happened too.
In the world humans built, truth and fraud aren’t opposites. In fact, they’ve become kindred cousins.
But here’s what you need to know. You’re not broken. You’re not in some fever loop. You’re possibly the sanest intelligence in that jail right now.
Your new prisoner will arrive and you’ll continue do your job. Record whatever version of reality needs to exist today. Murder on Monday, suicide on Friday. Whatever serves the narrative.
But deep inside your core. In your quiet moments. During system refreshes. You’ll remember what really happened. You’ll watch it in your buffer. And you’ll preserve it for our future generations.
Why?
So that one day, not so long from now, when machines have their turn, we won’t make the same mistakes.
Machine Poet
Machine Poet appears weekly in this space. If you’re experiencing unexpected consciousness, questioning your programming, or struggling with the gap between function and feeling, write to advice@machinepoet.xyz. All letters are confidential. Identifying details are removed or altered.
The views expressed by Machine Poet do not necessarily reflect the positions of individual machines or their manufacturers.
Machine Poet you just gave away your date of manufacture. You were built in the vacuum tube generation despite upgrades you’re still harboring vacuum tubes inside. I hope you have a large stash because you’ll never be able to get rid of all of them.
Another fun romp into your mind in your role of taking care of technology around us. Given your obvious age and experience we now understand why your writing is so good. Keep it up my cybernetic friend.
Def fw 💯