All writers have a shtick. Garth Greenwell was musing in our online book group today about his fondness for the word “little” as a substitute for the affectionate diminutive endings that English lacks. The novel he asked us to read this month, David Szalay’s noir tragedy Flesh, should win the Booker Prize for Most Occurrences of the Word “Okay”. Still it’s humbling to face the cold data of a computer program that has caught on to your favorite tropes and phrases.
A musician friend who loves the protest songs of Jesse Welles was dismayed by a lyric hinting at the young songwriter’s use of AI–probably how he manages to turn out several bangers a month. As an experiment, my friend asked ChatGPT to write lyrics for an anti-Trump song in the folk-blues style of John Prine and Bob Dylan. We had to admit that the lyrics were pretty good, but the genre does have certain conventions that are easy for real humans to imitate too.
So then I set my friend the task of using ChatGPT to produce a creditable Jendi Reiter poem on a topic of his choice. I don’t even understand what I’m doing in my poetry sometimes. Could there really be a formula to imitate someone as weird and obscure as yours truly?
The poem was…decent. And sort of sounded like me, or a younger version of me, when I belabored the message a bit more and indulged in more rambling internal arguments. There were some lines I would actually want to use. It was up to the standards of a semifinalist in a Winning Writers contest, which is going to make our job of detecting the real humans a lot harder.
AI says the hallmarks of a Jendi Reiter poem are “persona and surreal imagery,” “tone mingles wit and solemnity,” and “form shimmers: short stanzas, evocative word images, and metaphorical layering.”
What do you think, readers? Can you tell which one is the AI poem, and which is the real Slim Shady? To make the comparison fairer, I’ve chosen a B-list poem from my unpublished files, one that I decided didn’t quite land well enough to keep sending out on submission.
People or intelligent robots who correctly identify my poem, or make an interesting case for either selection, will receive a small and unimportant handmade gift.
Under the Neon Clinic Sign
I.
A deflated Mylar balloon stalks the clinic steps,
dinged by spray‑painted prayers: “Don’t Step In.”
It whispers, hiss, “I bore your weight once,”
its tether fraying like a mispronounced name.
I cling—air and pleading—to that fizz of resistance.
II.
In a room lit by fluorescent interrogation,
hums the buzz of law and lens and mirrored fear.
The doctor reads me like a user’s manual
with pages torn. “Stand where the law says you are,”
it hums. The law flickers in saline and regret.
III.
Outside, the billboard flicks on—Make Gender Great Again—
neon glows like broken bourbon in barroom mouths.
Its letters bleed: “MA‑MA‑MA.” Not mother, not nature,
just echoing frames demanding we bow inside them.
I pass by in my jacket’s borrowed trappings.
IV.
I fold myself into a dream of Lederhosen,
hoping trans history unspools like a tattered comic—
soldier‑princes, mother‑figures, and eggbeaters voting.
I joke: “Self‑Portrait as Mobilized Gender.”
But the laughter dissolves into a sob: “Catch me if you can, state.”
V.
So I stand in my body, unverified but unbroken,
my voice a remnant hymn, un‑housed by their rulebooks.
I flex—no, constellate—my scapula into wings
etched with the names they threatened on indexes.
I am part‑angel, part‑design, part‑groan.
VI.
They want us flattened, licensed, quiet.
We rise like mutant autopilots—non‑binary embers
in the body politic’s refinery.
Your bills and bans cannot extinguish our helium,
nor halt the morning of being.
****
What Not to Do in Boston
It is illegal to possess a wooden spoon
for pleasurable purposes.
24-7 is for coffee, not slaves.
You may not consent to danger
without pants.
There is no position known as the “Crème Donut”.
Chains around the neck must be held by a policeman.
Call no man Master
unless he is the dorm supervisor of Lowell House.
Boys in a row who kneel open-mouthed
belong in church.
It could be considered assault to give
a man more than he begs for.
Don’t worry, you’re still allowed to tie up
your future.
You’re encouraged to beat each other with numbers.
After all, this isn’t Wisconsin,
where you can’t even fire a gun during her orgasm.
Go ahead, do that rodeo clown,
but not in the presence of horses.
We just don’t want you riding around hell-
for-leather on people’s backs.
You’re supposed to step on them lightly and move on.