Slippery Slope

Elephants, Algorithms, And Shadows

Tread carefully, write guardedly

you can tell yourself the algo has no power over what you write

that you don’t care about your claps and your stats

you can tell yourself the boost makes no difference, that you write for the joy of writing

that money is no object, that fame and recognition are only for fools

that you know your own worth, and those stories that bomb are among your best jewels

but the algo will chip away at you like an invisible little cancer

it will slowly take your voice from you — your attitude, your pluck

it will whittle your audacity down to a manageable state, bridle your instinct for play

until you are writing according to its unspoken rules —

not Authenticity’s fire, but Imitation’s old shoe, not wild, biting satire, but self-improvement’s tools

it seems to open its metal, noble mouth to declare —

we only want what’s human until it is a little too uncomfortably human

that’s what AI is for — to take the edge off, peel the skin off a fruit before canning its juicy insides

so tame your unbridled spontaneity, stop swinging from poetry to jarring embarrassing satire

turn your vulnerable confessional into an assembly-line listicle

encoffin yourself in a niche — singular, expected, manageable, one-track, packageable

get rid of your rough edges like those lobotomized rhymes from ChatGPT that can put even your most unhinged insomniac to sleep

because the algo knows exactly what it’s looking for — its puppet masters have a way to clip your wings and tape shut your mouth

they have so many means, it is their writing platform, not yours — you are just a disposable pen in their hands

and who doesn’t like a bit of power? like gods, these tech giants write the rule book, program the algo — nothing is left to chance, let alone talent

they are well-intentioned, decent folk — but profit trumps talent, censorship checkmates serendipity

and the bots with their bot-writing are multiplying, stealing reads and claps with their reciprocity on steroids, and even fooling the boosters with their narcotic verses

this is the New Age, they say and yet we’ve seen this movie before —

Kesey’s first-hand account of one who failed to fly over the Cuckoo’s Nest, written while working graveyard shift at a mental hospital

so you better toe the line, don’t rock the boat, swallow your truth, and start croaking little white lies

they create the pecking order, the boosters, those arbiters of quality — they choose them

and, remember, humor is rarely boosted, and writing about Medium is never boosted —

so shut your mouth and grab your begging bowl, be nice to the editors

play along and don’t speak to the shadow, curb your originality, can your fire

it’s unpalatable to hear, I know, but it is a warning we’d be wise to ponder

authentic writing was never tame, not today, not in any age

and untimely laughter and humiliation are as important as food, sex, and death

something ChatGPT and the AI groomers seem to know little to nothing about

© Carlo Zeno 2023

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Thanks for reading. There is a lot of upside to Medium’s new changes, and a lot of positive things in its mission statement about seeking out authentic human-centered writing.

But a platform is only as good as its greatest weakness. I speak to its weaknesses in this poem, and worry about some of their implications. I also speak to some very real trends that I have been noticing of late.

Thank you to Franco Amati and Amanda Weir-Gertzog for considering this piece. Here are two more critical pieces on similar themes by Ben Ulansey and Michael Burg, MD (Satire Sommelier) below 👇