Open Mics in the Time of AI
07/03/25 15:06
Bert read the sign on the bookshop window, ‘Tonight: Open Mic. Federal Workers Unite in Grief and Hope.’
He thought about it, then went next door for a coffee whilst scrawling a few words down. He wasn’t completely happy with them when he finished—he never was—but they would serve a purpose: it would make him feel better.
There was a good friendly crowd at the bookshop by the time for the Open Mic. He put down his name and found he'd be fourth up, after some apparent very relaxed and all too competent regulars. Bert felt he was not in the same league and began nervously in front of all the strangers, but the words grew louder as he felt them and saw the welcoming faces.
“All of us travellers in time and space.
With no regard to time and place.
Watching our worlds come crashing down.
Barely registering an ounce of concern: causing no frown.
‘It’s all turned to shit, but you don’t care.
Living your dream, in our nightmare.
I really wish you’d get to fuck.
Trapped in your Tesla, if there’s any luck.’”
As Bert read the poem the ambient AIs through the audience's phones, the till, the fridge, the lighting system, and even the PA itself, made the judgement: Bert was Guilty.
After the event Bert chatted with some of the audience and found every one kind and very welcoming. It felt like a heartwarming event and he told himself he'd come again. When his Uber arrived it was a driverless Tesla. He laughed—he thought it ironic destiny. A few minutes later the flames of the car licked the sky and were visible across much of LA. Bert wouldn't be reading any more of his poetry again. Doing Open Mics in the age of AI is taking your life in your hands.
He thought about it, then went next door for a coffee whilst scrawling a few words down. He wasn’t completely happy with them when he finished—he never was—but they would serve a purpose: it would make him feel better.
There was a good friendly crowd at the bookshop by the time for the Open Mic. He put down his name and found he'd be fourth up, after some apparent very relaxed and all too competent regulars. Bert felt he was not in the same league and began nervously in front of all the strangers, but the words grew louder as he felt them and saw the welcoming faces.
“All of us travellers in time and space.
With no regard to time and place.
Watching our worlds come crashing down.
Barely registering an ounce of concern: causing no frown.
‘It’s all turned to shit, but you don’t care.
Living your dream, in our nightmare.
I really wish you’d get to fuck.
Trapped in your Tesla, if there’s any luck.’”
As Bert read the poem the ambient AIs through the audience's phones, the till, the fridge, the lighting system, and even the PA itself, made the judgement: Bert was Guilty.
After the event Bert chatted with some of the audience and found every one kind and very welcoming. It felt like a heartwarming event and he told himself he'd come again. When his Uber arrived it was a driverless Tesla. He laughed—he thought it ironic destiny. A few minutes later the flames of the car licked the sky and were visible across much of LA. Bert wouldn't be reading any more of his poetry again. Doing Open Mics in the age of AI is taking your life in your hands.