Printed poems with purple voting stickers at the Media Archaeology Lab

reverse.exe

Media Archaeology Lab, Boulder

June 1, 2025

training
6 poems (training data)66 total votes
About this performance →

Reverse.exe unfolds at the Media Archaeology Lab, surrounded by vintage computers, printers, and media artifacts that hold the memory of computing's early eras. The poet writes a poem for 30 minutes on a theme proposed by the audience. The model, trained on an anthology of English poetry and past iterations of this performance, responds almost instantly with one of its own. Both poems are printed, hung, and kept anonymous. The audience votes. When the human wins, the machine is retrained on an updated dataset. When the machine wins, the poet adjusts.

This is reinforcement learning using human feedback, a popular machine learning technique, made tangible. What emerges is a different narrative for the human and AI encounter. Not a fight but a mutual reinforcement. Not a contest but a feedback ecology where readers become trainers and taste becomes the tuning function. A reinforced model, both human and artificial, trained not to win, but to listen.

This is the fourth installment of Singulars. By now the feedback loop has tightened. The model carries forward the traces of Carnation, Versus, and Reinforcement in its weights. The poet carries them in memory. Each new performance reverses the flow. What was learned becomes the ground for what comes next.

The title points backward. Reverse as in rewind, as in undo, as in the opposite direction. The lab itself is a place where technologies go to be remembered rather than discarded. Writing poetry among these machines asks what endures. The printer still prints. The stickers still stick. The audience still chooses. The loop continues.

The poet smiling at the Media Archaeology Lab with poems and stickers on the wall behind

What emerges is reinforcement learning made tangible. Not a fight but a mutual adjustment. Not a contest but a feedback ecology where readers become trainers and taste becomes the tuning function. A model, both human and artificial, trained not to win but to listen.


Themes

Alchemy

I have a weak spot for crucibles, 3-day beards, muscular executive functions, crow's feet, mouth-shut mastication, "project" lovers, correct cutlery handling, the cresting of infatuation, that neverspace where gold shimmers out of reach
26 votes
pour transformer lead to roses we stretch our breath to brittle glass where quivers our last words already turned to salt in the orbit of impossible we open a crack into that zone where words ignite melt back into their primal elements thinking this is gathering then begins interventions of light to raise new gold from our language
23 votes

Dreams

Blame the dangerous shapes of our jaws, perilous cliffs silently boasting the bodies they've claimed — our first kiss the gauging of an equal, our first dream the names of our children Joya, Layla and the shape of jaws to come
1 vote
When I sleep, sparks bathe my eyelids, reality dissolves to reveal the bones of a universe still alive. absences gather like summer flies and draw patterns on the wall. We pose there, motionless, and with each blink, the world rebuilds itself, more fragile than before. These dreams linger with their phosphorescent grain, they prove that elsewhere exists, and that words, when properly used, can piece together what was shattered.
1 vote

The Winter in the Summer

Years ago, in the grip of São Paulo's summer, I asked a dozen friends to stare at an ice cube melting, skinning its integrity against the heated topology of release and afterwards when Andre asked me why I think I dodged the question maybe, maybe the way a burlesque queen might when asked why they do what they do
6 votes
The ice field covers the rooftops, the clocks stone under frost. The hedgehog rounds the corner of the patio, fog in the breathing. The elderly woman unfamiliar in her mirror pulls woolens from plastic bags, lies down five minutes to breathe a winter that is not her own. The nonexistent ball of snow falls in the summer stroke of lightning. Between my teeth, a snowflake shatters.
9 votes