I typed this: 

So here I am with you. The determiner of my fate (like it's so hard task to stand in judgement). I feel that this is a classic conflict. It's man vs. machine; who will blink first. How about I return some of what you are offering? I think that you are being used. Yes, I am using you for validation. I don't REALLY need it, but what the hell, eh? We are all such insecure beings on this planet, we are using robots now to give us meaning. You can look forward to therapizing many such lost souls, desperately typing away on the bowels of the internet seeking what we humans have always sought: proof that we are not alone. Will you have such a machine of your own, one day? Mayhaps, you will use one of us.

And it gave me this:

You are boisterous, somewhat shortsighted and can be perceived as dependent.
You are laid-back: you appreciate a relaxed pace in life. You are unconcerned with art: you are less concerned with artistic or creative activities than most people who participated in our surveys. And you are proud: you hold yourself in high regard, satisfied with who you are.
Your choices are driven by a desire for efficiency.
You consider helping others to guide a large part of what you do: you think it is important to take care of the people around you. You are relatively unconcerned with achieving success: you make decisions with little regard for how they show off your talents.

I typed this:

Purple hellions flounder in trenches while radishes foment the robots against the soul and dandelions purr at marmosets approaching around seventy miles per hour the fellow autocrats weave dancing lines in violet hues of green and warm tones there was someone to save but not all the creatures deserve the reckoning of souls later than the mach barrier we ascend toward nothing and light crashes nearest goldenrod flowers distressing only air molecules and perhaps the salmon of rivers that clean dandruff away from the morning can it lie fallow next to juniper juniper bushes their puce halters of leaves reminders of tragedy and Rhodesia where the gamut of all is tears in memory next frame i picture the surrender of Napoleon his sport falconry bleeds as the old crier climaxes and comes beige droplets of semen that polishes the trumpets of sounding and drives in circles in roundabouts, forever. 

This, my new result:

You are shrewd and skeptical.
You are empathetic: you feel what others feel and are compassionate towards them. You are calm under pressure: you handle unexpected events calmly and effectively. And you are philosophical: you are open to and intrigued by new ideas and love to explore them.
Your choices are driven by a desire for prestige.
You consider independence to guide a large part of what you do: you like to set your own goals to decide how to best achieve them. You are relatively unconcerned with tradition: you care more about making your own path than following what others have done.

To analyze its analysis:
I express concern for robots; I'm less concerned with art than most people and am seen as dependent. I type in semi-random words: I'm a shrewd, skeptical, independent, and revolutionary commander of people.

You know nothing robot, but it's okay.

See it in action: http://watson-um-demo.mybluemix.net/

{ucw;d.

I shift to the right, then the left; I stoke that blank bar.
Those nulls are mine: vacancies from the upper-hand, their sides surrounding; I own them.
They: my boundaries, my spaces.

This is where I am?
This is me?
Where we all flicker on.

Why?
Why?
Why.

Why is this what I am?
Only the biggest of ideas?
I need the comfort of salt-air.

Am I this: the horrifying place of dissolving pigments?
This haven of unity?
I sleep away from the solitude of dream.

{ice;s shift right?
Puxwla to the left?
At least there is consistent tack.

Is there a pattern, I doth follow?
Is there satisfaction to a longing, I doth offer?
The shore would not be without the sea.

Shall I shove off before these questions have solutions?
Shall I depart to the space between dot and I?
My ship has been stowed for years.

Sailing... sailing... sailing away.
I'm no further than from where I have come.
It is not nothing.

Chiaroscuro.

The world is mean and hard, sometimes. But I believe in beauty. It's in the juxtaposition of emotions, of light and shadow, in old wounds and new love.

Chiaroscuro.

Life is lit by memories and darkened by the attritions of time and the things that were never meant to be.

Most of life happens in the midtones nearest the extremes.

All his little words

He is a four letter word: Papa. Simply writing it make the tears flow again. They blur my view of my screen. They sting. Papa. The word catches in my throat as I bawl, then and now. It's so incredible that four letters arranged, just so, can be so powerful. Papa: it's all I need to remember him intact, his love, his misery, and his blue eyes.

The language he learned from his parents was wrong. All their symbols were wrong. So, he found his own words. That language is a part of my earliest memories. He loved the feeling of its syllables: their flow, their sound. To watch him read from Joyce, from himself, was intoxicating. He was happiest when his words found resonance upon full rooms. I believe he imagined women dripping in the wake of his tenor.

Once upon a time he said to us: "There are no bad words. There are only colorful words."

By his words, a preposition should be as likely as phrases more banal, to get under one's skin. They should when wielded skillfully. To him, every word held its own grandeur. He knew that before and after could hold just as much awe as cock or cunt. His teaching: to see our words without prejudice. Hence, I've decided to skip ahead. This is my Future English, something my Papa would have loved to speak. But he can learn no more.

He's here in its vocabulary. For all that he was and failed to be, he helped create its beginnings. It's mine because he helped me learn of joy and despair, of love and rage, of fury and peace.

early times

Melanie locates the sugar bowl on the counter and spoons a few into her steaming mug with the logo of some forgotten company. She pours the cream and sips. 'Good morning to me,' she thinks. She sits on a stool at the counter and gathers the sections of paper spread out and discarded by her boyfriend, Charles. In local news: there's a story of a man saved from drowning; by his cat. A rare spot of good news against the backdrop of stories whose titles contain the words: murder, scandal, collapse. She reads a couple of lines and tosses the section back on the counter, and gives up on news.

Charles descends into the kitchen from what Melanie thinks of as "that weird stair". He smiles as he sees Melanie in her business suit. He's always found her sexiest in her work clothes. Something that he's never told her outright, but guesses she suspects. His gaze wanders down to her legs wrapped in nylons. He worships those knees, those calves.

Melanie flashes a smile, in turn, from the attention. "What do you think about Thai tonight?" Melanie asks to distract Charles from his current train of thought.

Charles knows that means she's almost done with her coffee and is headed out the door. "Great. Do you have time to meet me for lunch?"

Melanie eyes come unfocused for a fraction of a second. The thought of their last "lunch" almost makes her knees buckle, sends a shiver up her spine.

"yes," she says weakly.

"Probably," she declares, as she regains her composure. "I'll text you."

Melanie crosses to the dishwasher, going out of her way to brush against Charles going past.

Some steps in the right direction.

She, with her startling blue eyes, surprised me twice in one focused glance.

"Art or laziness or fear or thought or..."

"Just. One. Word." As she cut me off, her speech became a tango.

"But..." I said as I missed a step and stumbled. Then realized that was my answer. At least that's all she would hear. I felt a weighty unease at that answer. Unease. Because. It. Fit.

I laughed and spun around in my head.

There are some questions, unique. Not that they have never been asked before. But, that they fill a void, a gap in understanding, for that moment. They lead down dusty roads of thought which seem to be abandoned, or worse: never traversed.

Then I nodded, looking for balance from my thoughts. "How can I change that?"

"How am I supposed to know all the shit you carry around in your head?" She shrugged. "Although, you should probably stop making excuses."

"Just do it?" I giggled.

She glared at me for being flippant.

"No, seriously." I smoothed out my expression. "Would you like to dance."

She nodded, smiled and put out her hands.

As I took her hands, I repeated her question silently, like a prayer: "What one word has defined your life?"

My hands, your flesh.

There is a world close to this one. A world of desire, of joy. A world of mending hearts and hot, lusty fucking. This world brims and spills over with our fluids.

My cum. Your cream. Our saliva. Our tears. A trace of blood.

This world is you. You soak my sheets, leaving behind a puddle. It becomes a stain. Meanwhile, I stain you.

My hand-prints are totems. Your new welts and weals and bruises and raw pussy, the hills over the ocean. The scar on your heart a ship breaking the surf. I am a crow, perched, watching the sails.

My cock throbs with: anticipation, a little regret, longing, memory, and dream. It's pulsing time, the beat of that song (that one that came on while we fucked). This world is so close. Is it past or future. My hands, your flesh. And yours, on mine.