My Friend the Artist

My friend, you try to get my goad...
You say, "AI makes art..." knowing
My prejudice against it. AI cannot.
For, like Hitler, the AI copies and pastes
Its formulae, so it is not true art.
But you, you are. I see your mother's face
In the contours of the statute you sketched;
Which could only be done by a human.
For, in the model's obviously european lines
You sketch your mother's African cheeks.
You even tell me why you think it is...
How it takes its poll and measures
The common lay's preferences.
That is not an artist.
That is a marketer. And a marketer is not an artist.
The person with PR skills, they can make
A fortune from dried dung or Rembrandt.
The man like me, unable to do so,
Can only go my way, and die in obscurity
Lest my LORD help me.
For obscurity is all I will obtain if my LORD
Does not bless me. But, at least I can say
I am an artist. And, I can also say, so are you.
Like Mr. Hoffer said,
The artist is content to create
And imbue Mimesis;
Like I told you, that is what makes a piece of art.
That your mother's face imprints on the statue
Like an Oedipal line---
That is what it is to create.