When AI Writes My Poem, Who Is Listening?

I used to think slot machines were just lights and noise—until I realized they were stage scripts written by someone else’s longing.

The Algorithm That Doesn’t Speak

They call it ‘RTP’—Return to Player—but what if it’s really Return to Person? In Brooklyn, my grandmother taught me that luck isn’t random. It’s remembered. Every spin is a verse left unsaid. The Wilds don’t replace symbols—they replace silence with sighs.

My Budget Was Written in Blood

I set my limit at $5 per spin—not because I’m poor, but because I’m present. Each moment on screen is a breath held too long. No jackpot feels like wealth unless you’ve sat still long enough to hear your own heartbeat.

Free Spins Are Lullabies

When Scatter symbols bloom, it’s not a bonus—it’s your mother humming Jamaica in Creole while the reels turn. That sound? It’s the same lullaby she sang when I was seven—and now AI tries to mimic it.

The Stage Was Always Mine

You think this is gaming? No—it’s performance art coded in code we never named. The Jackpot isn’t gold—it’s the echo of my father reciting Yeats under neon lights on Lenox Street.

You Don’t Need to Win

The real reward isn’t in the payout—it’s in pausing long enough to wonder: who wrote this poem before me? And did they ever ask if I was listening?