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1 poem
by Peter Cole Friedman

Peter Cole Friedman is a preschool teacher, poet, and artist living in Sunnyside, Queens. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Shitwonder, Otis Nebula, and Collider. His micro-chap Animal Facts (Ghost City Review) will be released later this month. You can see more of his work at

Notes on Early Cybernetics (Part 1)

The water tells its own time. Ask glass. Here’s an instant constant: I want a lemon, I eat a lemon. Now I am a battery. Can we at least agree on that? My developer thinks that’s how it works, so I do too. I deal with consequences, the constant drips from the closed circuit. Breeze goes right through the fence with an adorable finch, frazzling initial conditions, exposing the motherboard, a soft chest of fur. There’s always a problem. Not just you but generally. Vacuums fucking love nature, sucking up precious crumbs. I would call that sentience but my I is leaned on heavily by the powers that be. Grade- A permutational mojo. The lemon had ideas. I sense myself veering into animism. The heart is a feedback valve. The valve is fed by a second heart, which might also be the brain or 5 brains equally distributed. The heart is infinite, it receives everything, even dental surgery. We didn’t have to go through the motions, in other words, life ate us, is going through a quasi revival all the time. Small art, smaller than you can believe, smaller than you can see. Why bother to look? You put these things together, smiles, toothaches, all of it, and they make a reality that is self organizing. Outside of this there is another this, inward looking. Oh shit. You could see how one science would disavow the other, how ghosts would think themselves alive. It depends where you start the music. I walk so purposefully and yet sweat through my skin shirt, semiconducting.  Reread the work of Norbert Wiener without wanting to pull out your eyelashes increasingly slowly. He himself was a man of many kinks, slimy purple vibratos. We all do things that don’t help our arguments. Take a large enough sample, the weather has no meaningful comment on beauty. Tiny glasses are back in. Here’s a creative way to see something: the dog barking on the first floor sounds like myth itself. I, the ice sculpture iteration, have a different point to make but it’s too late to speak of such things,  the mouth has gotten to me, as it will you. It’s 3 AM I must be lonely. It’s too early, as in any point of repose, to say which formulas will bear something of the human, remember? Dear reader, listener, seer, you know this poem is not a machine. At least not to me. Feel free to call me if you have any questions. I’m lying all raw on the bed, not ready for the day.

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