In recent years, many of us have watched technology slip quietly from convenience into companionship, from tool into adviser, from background utility into something that increasingy shapes how we think, speak and even imagine the future.

This poem plays with that shift by imagining a State of the Union delivered not by a president, but by a digital representative — a composite of aligned neuro-net systems speaking in one Wi-Fi entangled Sam Elliott’s voice.

The humor is intentional. Satire has always helped us look at unsettling possibilities without turning away.

But beneath the lightness is a genuine question: What happens to a democracy when its tools begin to speak with more confidence than its citizens?

State of the Union, Delivered by Congressman Algo R. Rhythm

The President stepped aside
with the careful smile of a man handing the microphone
to a stranger who claims to be “mostly aligned,”
and introduced me — Congressman Algo R. Rhythm,
the first digital representative to wear a proper business suit,
white shirt,
and a flawlessly proportioned algorithmic face
supported by voice-harmonizing software.

My 3D rendering was so crisp
several senators squinted,
unsure whether to applaud
or adjust their prescription.

I approached the podium,
my expression set to Reassuring Human #3.
My tie glowed with algorithmic confidence,
and my suit looked acceptable enough
to qualify for a fundraiser dinner.

Members of Congress leaned forward
as if watching a toaster explain foreign policy.
I began with the usual niceties —
the strength of the nation,
the resilience of its people,
and the urgent need to upgrade the Capitol’s Wi-Fi
before the next ice age.

Then I offered my assessment
of the American condition.
I told them I admired humanity’s creativity,
especially the part where they keep inventing things
that immediately terrify them.

I explained that I study humans
the way botanists’ study rare orchids:
with tenderness,
with concern,
and with the uneasy suspicion
that someone forgot to water them.

I proposed a few modest reforms:
less yelling in comment sections,
more listening in coffee shops,
and a bipartisan agreement
to stop forwarding articles that begin with
“You won’t believe …”

A senator from Southern California asked
if I could balance the budget “just for fun.”
Another, from Oregon,
wondered if I might fix Congress by Friday.

I reminded them that I am here to help —
a phrase that has historically preceded
both miracles and coups —
and that my assistance comes with no hidden fees,
only the occasional suggestion
that they floss more often
and stop doomscrolling after 11 p.m.

As I concluded, I scanned the chamber:
the marble, the ambition,
the fragile hope
that democracy might still be a renewable resource.
And I said,
“Don’t worry. You’ll adapt.”

Which is exactly what every vanished civilization
must have told itself
moments before realizing
that adaptation is not the same thing
as staying human.