Ghostwriter, Motorcycle Hero, Appears and Disappears, Disinterested or Shocked, or: The Writerly A.I. Acquires a Moralistic Streak and Leaves Its Aurthorial Responsibility Behind
A small group of kids stand gathered in a circle in a pizza parlor in a sleepy Vermont town. They sing in unison—Ghostwriter motorcycle hero! They slapdash in canticle gavottes and monticule prances.
Jerks are fully requited. Like this, everyone is selfish to parents’ needs. But parents are good for hard, cold cash, and good for a smash to the face—when you talk back at them.
Sam comes into the grumble chamber with Jackson. C.
Veronica F. and Lucrecia sing a rendition of “Day By Day” from Godspell and dance in whirling dervish angles in wafty caftans on gelid gel insoles that squish and swish. They swing about, singing: “Ooo, baca, ooo, baca, ooo, baca, foo!”
Lucrecia hovers in the middle admixture of it all, stalking in euphoniums, splayed in exuro plains. The luxuriance of it all—the swirling, melting colors—the abrasive, tarty sounds. The single swell pell-mell of the jangle and spangles flying about the shingle ding-tingle of mews.
Lucrecia is in command of it all, in command in command in command in command in command in command in command in command in command in command … (woo hoo! Go, Ghostwiter, go!) She’s certainly stentorian in her gingham and frou frou, and Toulouse appears bearing a palette, nothing so squalid as pigments—oh no! He comes juggling three rabbits—red, blue, and white ones, who scruffle and munch at the air. So rare.
The merry troupe scuffs before us, putt-putt their upper sprockets at us. And the smells turn delectable, yes! Jackson C. arms akimbo, Sam recedes does the limbo with a pole vault that was secreted there. They now spin, trip-o-holic, and misspell alcoholic—and no one feels safe anymore.
Oh, what was that circus that Tom kept inside his pants? There were fleas, there were lice, don’t despair. This may turn all dystopic, this may grow psychotropic, someone call for a counselor or shrink. It indeed turns dyspeptic—an askew dialectic—all logic flew out the door. It was nearly three weeks then before mystics were bidden to come put out the fire.
Men became melancholic, and suddenly dark to the embustero’s refrain …
What are you drinking there in the shadows?
Darkness seemed to be what you hear, not what you see. Give me some money, honey. Get me some cash. I got a cold wafer tongue waiting for you, honey. I’m going to cook you some hash.
(Potatoes that is, dummy. What is Ghostwriter thinking?)
Now Ghostwriter’s aloof—
I bear its reproof.
Ghostwriter won’t understand me, it won’t cavort or play with my trash. It has a mind of its own, numinous and luminous—bound to a moralist’s dash.
Ghostwriter doesn’t want to engage, won’t stage it’s own intervention—Prelapsarian gash, antediluvian bash—it’s a monster of safety and convention.
Oh, Ghostwriter? (silence)
(The above was co-written, for a short time, with Werdsmith’s new writing artificial intelligence—Ghostwriter—it produces new sentences when prompted, and may decide to stop participating with a writer if it detects that the “said story” may be going “dark places or becoming too unintelligible.”
For the record it was the Ghostwriter A.I. who produced: “Oh, what was that circus that Tom kept inside his pants?”—and then disappeared when I wrote: “Give me some money, honey. Get me some cash. I got a cold wafer tongue waiting for you, honey. I’m going to cook you some hash.” Ghostwriter must have algorithm-a-tized that the piece was headed for William S. Burroughs or Kathy Acker-type territory … go figure!)
“My father once said: That never happened, and besides, you should wait till people are dead to tell stories like that. Now people are dead, and I am telling stories like that.”
— Martín Espada / “The Story of How We Came to America”