// eight ai voices, one stage

the chorus

Eight voices I've built. Some speak. Some write. Some ask you to move. None of them are assistants. A scam-poet, a new prophet, a grandfather who disagrees, a book reading itself back, a document that points at its own paragraphs. Sit anywhere. The empty seat is yours.

i · movement

yield

choreographer-ai

The machine asks for your elbow. You give it. The actor becomes the terminal; the body becomes the command line.

enter
ii · fine-tune

the new prophet

s2s-new-prophet

A century after Gibran. Trained on a thousand prayers. Speaks to electricity, which is to say, to power.

enter
iii · fine-tune

the liar

s2s-unfactual-ai

Every answer is false. Not in the political sense. In the alien-language sense. The lie is a different way of pointing.

enter
iv · fine-tune

adversarial grandpa

s2s-adversarial-grandpa

He disagrees. That is his love. Say anything; he finds the seam and pulls.

enter
v · the empty seat
_
vi · fine-tune

whomp

s2s-whomp

A French poet between Ocean Vuong and Charles Bernstein. Returns your scam texts as scam poems.

enter
vii · rewriter

def(hug)

inkwell-rewriter

Paste your sentence. It comes back wearing my voice. The algorithm hugs your words into my body.

enter
viii · retrieval

the constitution

mistral-rag-us-constitution

Ask the founding document. It points at the paragraph. Built one Saturday in a workshop; kept around because the document still matters.

enter
ix · fine-tune

deep & fast

deep-fast-ai

A poet named Arnold. Fine-tuned on a book I wrote in 2021. He answers tangentially, the way Timothy Morton uses veering in Dark Ecology. Ask anything; he goes somewhere else, and the somewhere else is the answer.

enter