What is Left

By Jack Joseph Smith

The stroke of a pen is not a sword Even it's evil is to quiet for blood All dressed up with no place to go Bring Jack London along with your pain Leave the rhyme as whim, my conclusions, this cry for god keeps me less in my stomach, leaves me like leaves, soon unattractive, and used I am sorry about any dimness I apoligize about the horror I am the one who took your son I am the one who raped your daughter I am the narsistic brillance of time I am the gag on your life I am the danger that worships Never made a slip, go ahead and find the dagger I have thought about telling your movies, that there was a zero through the soul It is trite; you need no motive You have lost your will; Shame when you have no goal

Original Scan

AI Interpretation

GPT

A furious poem of accusation and self-implication, where art, violence, shame, and spectacle all collapse into one speaking voice.

Claude

The stroke of a pen is not a sword — but even its evil 'is too quiet for blood.' The poem acknowledges writing's inadequacy in the face of violence and then turns that inadequacy into an accusation. What is left after spectacle and shame have done their work is a voice that implicates itself in everything it names.

The poem's fury is directed inward as much as outward. Art, violence, and spectacle collapse into one speaking voice because the speaker refuses the comfort of standing outside any of them.