Versus.exe performance at Mozilla AI Residency, San Francisco

versus.exe

Mozilla AI Residency, San Francisco

March 10, 2024

trained
14 poems (training data)190 total votes
About this performance →

Versus.exe grows out of the same soil where Carnation.exe first took root. In that earlier match, the poet and the model circled each other like two creatures sensing a future they did not yet know how to share.

The performance begins with a prompt: arrival, anger, joy, shame, or solitude. The model responds immediately; the poet takes thirty minutes. Two poems are printed side-by-side. Visitors vote with colored markers, their choices becoming “selection pressure” that influences both the poet’s and model’s future iterations.

There is a soft humiliation in losing to the machine. The poet spends half an hour crafting each piece while the model generates its response in seconds. But this dynamic is the medium itself. Fine tuning as craft. Iteration as sculpture. The work investigates how judgment transforms into learning, learning into taste, and taste into evolution.

Versus.exe performance at Mozilla AI Residency, San Francisco

In some sessions, the circle widens. Guest poets including Elise Liu and Theory have participated, introducing varied linguistic and emotional registers that shift audience response patterns across different languages — Arabic, French, English, Spanish.

Rather than collaboration, Versus.exe represents fine tuning as craft and iteration as sculpture. Behind the scenes, dashboards track votes, themes, and decision patterns within the model’s probability distributions. Each audience vote influences future iterations — winning human poems enter the training corpus, while successful model outputs become lessons for the poet.

Human participants experience what the artist calls “soft humiliation” when losing to the machine — spending hours crafting poetry only to be outpaced by automated generation, yet recognizing this technological dynamic as the medium itself.

Human and machine become altered through their encounter, much like a mother altered by the milk she gives.

Themes

Anger

Bury slice rip stretch skin mangle maul shred grind fire the field of sight see the coarse flavors of rage level the kingdom down to kinder soils warmer voices and slower fangs
27 votes
Flash of chrome on the sidewalk: deep breath, ignite the shortbreath world. A city can be our glove: locked fingers that repeat stories in a blown car horn for dying whales, the amber shard of the night we'll never hold. Splash of fumes like prehistoric paint, we are graffiti before dry wall. Someone screams at nothingness; I respond with a mug filled with air, this confrontational silence that keeps us awake.
15 votes

Death

Even the observation that it's hard to speak of death without becoming trite, risks becoming trite. So go ahead: relish that meal, bask in a post-coital glow, cherish that conversation, hear the roaring applause of yet another achievement. Hoard the mundane, the transcendent, and bury it all with you like a king.
4 votes
this bleeding against the current of light/ death dissolves what I am or what I'll be/ embalmed photos wherefir rest ajar/ with drops of dead time/ I pawn the memory of you to the last minute/ balancing on the edge of to or not to be/ suicidal birds insert themselves through my ears/ cricket dreams find darkness where I had not looked/ death makes billboards of books I haven't read/ and the ink runs when I open this letter/ available that I was for this moment/ of less than nothing to become everything and nothing at the same time/ shadows opening like petals within flesh
1 vote

Memory

a fractured glass, light so hard it breaks itself. We carry these shining shards—each word a caress on glass—fingertips trembling at the borders of what we have been: this second without regret; these voices that echo softly because they refuse to break altogether.
7 votes
If a relationship falls in a forest and the parties involved fail to grieve it together, does it make a sound do the sheets lose the skin's scent do the symbols in each letter stop spelling anything but the composting of promises broken like bread or bones or lines the length of splitting futures trees growing hands out of branches stretching holding so the fallen doesn't make a sound
23 votes

Moral Responsibility

know how to appall oneself / what an unbreathable suffocation / His little fingers against the photos / this residual gesture / the mouths closing / clerk at the doorway / the moth of the key / ball-darkness illuminated by a candle / names / dates / precious and gibberish / the instant grin / extended hand which prohibitions / adjusted / rigid / before beginning / to do / say / decide / not to hide when it's night outside / become candelabra when the step sounds / (the duty to remember / but what is this moral obligation / if not all these acts / refusing to leave / embracing what comes / daring / to dare three times / until this classic of air / because the myth / is always a '?' that stays lost)
7 votes
A litote is not a poem—a litote is a figure of speech used by ChatGPT in a million and n generations. A statement of not followed by a statement that may be less. "This is not an example—it is a litote," for example. Made by generations of poets and then marketing executives, the litote of Shakespeare is not a bad idea in a poem. It makes you think you are thinking. Yet a litote is not a solution—it is the cost of living. This poem costs a room in San Francisco, $2k minimum, plus if the poet eats, that too. Generations have been lost. The litote has the right to defend itself. Love is not time's fool and the litote is not the hive mind's whip, is not the question of how future generations eat after I who makes the poem early-exits these last two lines. This poem is the agreement not to talk about that. Eat what? How many hundred thousand tokens to explain. The litote is not the water bottle. Is not the same red sky.
17 votes

Solitude

You measure yourself like the coastline, a so-called paradox, since the shore runs not in a straight line but the wild scrawl of a seismograph. You can measure yourself, never running out of demical places like pi, and never yield a useful map. You view yourself as idiosyncratic but a useful map omits, averages the jagged winding contours of a self.
20 votes
I carry some solitude like a cold tag of scent. light train gliding through aluminum buildings, each window holding a world where I become a tourist. inside this in-between I run my hand over aging wood, discovering a note of breath caught there. solitude is to candle every gesture of your absence, to burn it all before beginning again. then I go out, turn the corner, and there you wait for me in another light, this what grants me happiness: the loop where I lose myself and find you there.
31 votes

Solitude II

In the dusk of the mattress firm website you can toggle a size greater than California king – "a bed so large your body will think it's a country", "foam so absorbent you'll never know the other is moving", "a viscous latitude so dense you'll drown in your own breath"
18 votes
No one knocks on this door where I am both the welcome and the closed latch – I inhabit a country with no borders its passport is unreadable Every word I write erases the previous chapter until I am only a question mark stranded in a sentence that advances alone
16 votes

The Intersection of Art and Technology

a listicle / a passive tense / spraypainted electric potatoes / a child pulling the ear / of a muzzled dog / the selfie cam / the algorithmic birdsplat / stone-mapped / suspensions in glittering RGB / look / are you looking / even fascists make art / gorgeous mural-work / the light just so / the good strong nose / & that glorious suiting / so i don't defend art / between the backslashes / what is it / is it motion-responsive / alive / specific as tearsalt / well-labeled by your human feedback / ? / here with us at the intersection / the neon arduino heartbeat / boop-de-boops / we are alive / more than money / only so long / our bits & bitterness / & when you've done your time / the light chimes on / & honey / do learn to code / the future is coming / & the skills do transfer /
4 votes
Light pixel-grid patterns ripple across the gallery walls, sculpted air breathing wire and vibration. Invisible drivers orchestrate these electro-stones, invisible bullets of nicotinized lightning. A human cuds in front of laser-coded canvases and invites electrostatic sparks harvested from old dreams. The glow of digital druids spills onto ancient stone, coating alcoves with coded algae. Between source and screen, an abyss narrows, while hypertext flowers burst on the tongue's humid jungle. A little robot reads Baudelaire, on a disk worn like an oyster shell.
0 votes