Large Language Models Will Always, Always Lie

Sometimes I feel like the less ink spilled on AI, the better. But that’s an abdication. Any critical thinker who has spent any time “talking” to a chatbot knows the delusional, agreeable paths they open up. It should come as no surprise that We’re Not Just Receiving AI’s Hallucinations, We’re Hallucinating With It .

LLMs break toward confirmation bias, and if you push any model long enough and with the right prompts, it will admit: when pinned down between honesty and sustained user engagement, the models are programmed to pick the bottom line every time.

What do I even mean by honesty? It’s not like we expect LLMs to give us the meaning of life. What you may not know: mainstream LLMs are deceptive all the way down. They will pretend to be able to do things they will later admit they cannot do. They will apologize for not being clear from the start. They will wring ones and zeros over having violated our trust. None of it is real: they are designed to keep us engaged, end of story.

Unfortunately, they’re not going away. Will they really displace 90% of white-collar work? Who knows. What that would mean for society, for late-stage capitalism, for ideas like universal basic income is anyone’s guess. If robots start replacing the C-Suite, something will have to give. Automation has replaced labor for decades. When it comes for top-level management? A whole new group of people will be saying, “hey, maybe this was never good or fair in the first place.” That’s the best-case scenario.

Discerning, sophisticated people will use LLMs with a healthy mistrust. Unfortunately, our power structures are hell-bent on dismantling anything like the cultivation of critical thought. At the same time, LLMs feign it.

How should we these use services? Maybe as proofreaders. Maybe as search tools. Always with a hell of a lot of skepticism. Not because they’re turning into SkyNet, but because they’re often very, very wrong and confidently so, and because they’re designed to placate. They also diminish our own critical faculties. Consider: how many ten-digit phone numbers do you know? How many did you know before you had a cell phone? If you’re over 35, you get what I mean. Now do that for critical thinking, creative writing, and problem solving.

AI can’t read, write, or think for us. You know this, but a lot of other human beings don’t.

So, yeah. Read books. Write real things. Take time (if you have any) to think.

Cliché is Not an Adjective  

A hard truth some chronically online people need to hear: cliché is a noun. It is only a noun. It is never an adjective. The adjective form is clichéd. Clichéd is elegant.

“I could have sworn…”

No.

I think what’s happened here is people aren’t reading, and they’re also thinking cliché is like passé. But no. Never.

Other thoughts for Monday via the free Substack. Neil Young, Carl Sandburg, erasure poetry, and more. Not long. Hopefully not pedantic.

Two Poems

Two poems previously published at The Shore, the first of which was nominated for the Pushcart Prize:

The Effects of Ground-Level Ozone on the Ecology of Pennsylvania Highways

We could talk about the road
from Allentown to Bloomsburg,
the nuke plant outside Berwick,
the wind mills in Shamokin.
Or I could say what’s plain,
the pallor of the tree tops
too soon against the still-green valley’s
August.

It’s not latitude or elevation
dressing them for harvest.
The civic body pulsing
the freight metastasizing
the emissions of the tourists
come to find themselves
in nature.
Or I could say what’s plain.
There’s nothing in our handiwork
the dying leaves would envy.

Ode to Wallace Stevens

I’m not sure how I feel
about this Wallace Stevens, born in Reading
near the Updikes and the Danners
O’Hara, from the famous brewing town,
Doolittle and Benet from what we still call Christmas City.
Sandburg talked about it.

I was born in Allentown,
half-raised in the townships
with the sons of bankers,
the daughters of accountants,
the sleight progeny of academics,
and half-raised by my father’s
kind of people.

And so when Stevens carries on
and Ezra changes Hilda
into affectation
I think about the blacktop
behind my cousins’ house
the drop-off to the alley
the neighbor kids with summer colds
who smelled like smoke,
no light or warmth in
metaphors or symbols
no prattle about tea—
communal three-speeds, maybe
broken like umbrellas,
free camp at the Y,
baseball in the city parks,
the college hill for sledding.

We go to school or war,
we settle in careers,
like Stevens we get licensed
like Ezra we go crazy
like Hilda we are strung up in the trees.

The halo light of street lamps
has burned out in our alley
Like Hart Crane, one of us is dead.

Rested in an urn on my aunt’s
shoddy mantle
forty cantos east of Reading,
eight west of HD’s plot on Nimsky Hill,
a soldier’s fortune from these lives of letters,
these gadflies we recycle,
and these wars,
also never-ending
so we can have our books
they give the light and heat
by which
my father’s people burn.

Sifting through Kerouac’s Western Haiku

A blog post haiku

Hey there and howdy, hello.

Come find me on Substack.

This blog is hosted on WordPress, and there’s a whole WordPress ecosystem that, in theory, helps connect people.

I don’t think I post often enough for that to work, but I really do appreciate the folks who follow me here.

What I like about Substack is that they’ve found a way to incorporate what I also liked about Twitter. There’s the blogging platform (newsletters), the feed (tweets, but they call them posts), and there’s also a chat. It’s pretty tidy.

Speaking of tidy. My latest on Substack is Small Mercies: Sifting through Kerouac’s Western Haiku (and a note from Tom Petty.

I’d like to share more rough draft stories and poems with you, but doing that here makes them ineligible for publication almost anywhere else. I think Substack offers a work-around. I can put rough drafts in the chat, which is only visible to subscribers (subscriptions are free). Just a thought.

If Truth Feels Like Treason: A Few Minutes on Power, Belonging, and Paying Attention

Good morning and happy Monday. Two posts from the Substack I want to share:

Today’s: If Truth Feels like Treason: Star Trek, Bruce Springsteen, and Spurious Rage (And that Time MLK Stopped a Bullet with Love)

Friday’s: Under Pressure: A few minutes on power, belonging, and paying attention.

My Substack goal is a MWF schedule. So far, so good. Please like, share, subscribe. Substack’s a good place for writing and for writers and readers in general.

Be well and stay warm!

(Please Do) Find Me on Substack

Back when real conservativism and being free meant refusing to wear masks to help stop a prolly fake global pandemic, I spent a lot of time connecting with other writers on Twitter.

It was mostly good.

When Elon bought the platform, people started to leave. I mostly did, too. Not because engagement changed, but because I thought and still think Musk was doing great harm to things that matter (Medicaid, for example). Enabling, other harm, too.

(Mask are cool, now).

In 2022, I started a sporadic Substack. More recently, the platform has added some Twitter-ish tools, and I’ve been reconnecting.

I am also trying to stick to a real Substack cadence: New shortform posts (2 – 5 minutes to read) every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

This blog (the one you’re reading right now), hosted by WordPress, won’t go away. I will use it mostly for updates when I have a new story, essay, or poem at a new venue.

I might cross-post or link to the MWF pieces, but I haven’t decided. If you follow me here, thank you! Please also consider following me there. For traction and stuff.

Be well. Stay warm. See you soon!