the computationally disappointed

s/he works on the cutting edge
with eyes pasted to the screen,
knowing no limits &
no time constraints---
with all the funding one could possibly
handle, s/he’s
scrunched down in a lab at
MIT or locked away in some
European bunker &
each day brings a moment that
may of never been foreseen even a
few years ago---
each step of progress towards a perfect
A.I., is another in the life of a
creator amongst creators,
who dreams of fulfilling an
electronic euphoria,
be it arming the empire’s military by
2030 with a legion of new futuristic
supersoldiers
(to further stamp out whatever resistance is
left on the planet), or whether it comes down
to perfected humanoids who
never age & are able to be sculpted into
any living biological human’s
most sexually perverse of fantasies
all for the sake of fucking,
the scientist keeps her/his
peddle to the metal,
with a face that hardly anyone will ever know,
with research that is always, for the most part,
just an individual puzzle piece
placed on the table
for the greater plan---
and as the creation gets smarter,
as the models progress,
as the research extends far beyond anything
imaginable,
the nanorobots supposed to be available to
save this scientist from
dying like the rest of us,
with the array of wonderful diseases, viruses,
cancers & plagues available,
simply are not quite ready &
the years that the younger scientists have,
this one does not &
though s/he isn’t supposed to think about it,
a jealousy fills up inside him/her
because the creation which s/he is working on
tirelessly,
will no doubt provide technology to make others
outlive him/her,
or quite possibly push others into a place of
cyber-immortality,
after having been downloaded into the
omniscient hard drive of all
hard drives in the coming
simulation---
and on and on, as the possibilities of the future
tap him/her on the shoulder,
the hours go by, which s/he’ll never get back &
s/he knows all too well that
s/he will die before seeing it all come to
any satisfactory
fruition.