My Cardboard Balcony

Literary Computation by Belinda Roddie If I were a robot, would you still accept a sonnet born from my golden circuits? Would you let me read a story to you if I managed to clutch it in my cold, stiff, metal claws? If the story were mine, would you still hear the music in the words that warp in my monotone voice? Would it all sound human enough to move you? To move you? To move you? To move you?

Jerry walked into the electronics store and was amazed to see how many television sets lined the walls. Everywhere he looked, screens blinked at him, flashing different colors, screaming in different tones and hums and buzzes and voices. About a dozen or so TVs were turned to a news channels; a dozen others, the local baseball game. But some of the sets focused on something entirely different - a fantasy show from Jerry's youth.