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.

A saint sees his own
Sin, and takes it very harsh.
But, he does not see
The sin in those around him.
He covers them up when known.

A demon others'
Sin he sees, and takes it harsh.
But he does not see
The sin within his own heart.
By guilt, he hurls a stone.

I hate our modern age.
Yet I love our modern age.
A stodgy book is Lolita or Gravity's Rainbow
While the books with dust on their covers
Get blown off, and seen afresh.
There is nothing more exciting
Than seeing Austen venerated
And Dostoevsky, too.
The social milieu is repressed sexual urges
Manifesting in the castration and masectomation of our young.
For, they think they can pacify the primal urge
With a knife, hormones and sodomy.
They cannot erase the vesture of the past
For it is too strong an obelisk.
Austen becomes alien,
And so with her the Bible...
Jesus' Sermons become new all over again
As a generation who grew up in the Dogma
Of the Cult of Id find otherness to latch onto.
A whole new crop of thinkers are on the horizon...
Where Joyce and George R. R. Martin
Are the stodgy norm, glutted anarchy and feasts of semen
Those of us who want order
Are drawn to my favorite books.
The stodgy quo is the Aristocracy of Materialism and Postmodernism
While the Religious Avant Garde tell their riskee morals.
"Kill the cannibal society, that rapes children.
"Make slaves of the murderers.
"War has always been genocide
"There is no way around it...
"Yet, the Nazis needed cleansed of their racial impurity
"That of the Aryan caste, they needed to die."
And we are like Camus was seventy years ago,
Like Sartre and Freud.
On the en garde against silly philosophies that hurt and destroy
Our halcyon prosperity.
With words and not bullets we fight back...
Just like they did.
We are now persuasive
We are now the irritating troublemakers.
We are now... yes... we...
The ones' whose truth sets that chemical offense
Because it cannot be fended off by reason any longer.
For, by proof of reason, all we claimed would happen
Was true.

How the Native Americans
Would summate my belief is true---
It is what I believe, wholly.
Just like textbooks wholly show theirs.
Why do we shy away from Say?
As in to say, the textbooks ought
Not believe in Animism
And give a very clinical
Definition for their beliefs.
No... instead we are now so forced
To see it wholly from their view.
And that is what is being taught.
A perspective where we embrace
The beliefs of those we conquered
In order to then supplement
The religion we so obviously lack.

Robert Frost, when you write on gold's
Green, you write just like I have wrote.

Rumi, you write your Desire
For God: write just like I have wrote.

Hans Christian, so broken, you are 
Like me, writing like I have wrote.

Walt Whitman, when exalting our
Country, you write like I have wrote.

Emerson, your words on Word say
True writers write like I have wrote.

If A+B+C=AxBxC,
Then it is a triangle.

If A^2+B^2=C^2
It is a right triangle.

We must understand this about equalities.
Thereby,
If doing a proof,
And one has a formula
A+B
One cannot intuit from this
A+B=0
If in a geometric relation.
For the system of equations
Will define the parameter
Of how the function will equate.
A+B will only equate
In relation to the other sides
Of the Geometric Figure.

Seething with desire, and lust...
All is yours. Everything within your grasp.
What is your subjects, is yours.
What is yours belongs to you.
Every vehicle belongs to you...
Chariots of steel, chariots of iron,
Chariots of plastic might...
All belongs to you.
How your springs beneath your citadel 
Are envied. How you desire,
And you love your desire.
Lust's fruits and every pleasure you exuberantly fill
Your mouth with. Great zeel, great desire...
The citizen you see, his sustenance you wish to be yours.
Covetous, covetous, covetous.
Rain, you wish to make it rain.
Sun, you wish to make it sun.
Wind, storm, tempest, you wish to rise to the status of God in Heaven.
Your princedom you shepherd with the Recitation of your father's words.
And they do your bidding, but nothing they have belongs to them.
You bring forth your chariots, and you ride in them through the heavens...
A god of gods, you ride, like Mithra, and you carry the sun in your chariot of fire.
You want all in subjection to you...
Every cent of wealth in your chambers.
You have no peer. 
You comfort yourself with this wisdom.
None who rival you with your wisdom, none who will rival your fame and fortune.
The peoples will bow in their mud crust shanties, and they will worship you...
It is your vision for the future you wish to construct.
Everything about life you are enthused, and it excites you.
The feast, the game, the war, the contest, the wit...
All art, all theater, all ancient pottery.
If it is truly skilled, you wish it to enrich you...
And only you. Only you, to view it.
All art, and all beauty, in your possession
And for no other eye beside you, and possibly those whom you bestow the blessing
Within your court.
The courtier, the poet, the sage, the scholar, the master, the magician, the fool,
They all entertain you, and those whom you have selected from the Earth
To be your gods who reign with you.

Grecia, your world is built through riches'
Prosperity, and your covetous kings
Say, "Let only the merchant who lives
"Be with ninety billion drachma."
You seethe with hatred toward Israel
For it is a prosperous little land.
There it is, with cream and sugar
Oil and spice, meat and fruit.
And you say, "Look how fat this people is;
"They are worth nothing,
"For they consume my sustenance."
So said the King of Grecia
Even covetous of his subjects' fine instruments.
"Do not play, do not play! By royal decree!"
Thus, the musician is regulated to go to her designated
Place, to sing her heart's songs.
Beautiful she is, but the King of Grecia
Does not care about her fine beauty,
For a thousand like he has deflowered.
The fatness of the peasant is an offense to Grecia.
Thus, he wishes to steal our sustenance,
And make music to cease from the land.
Lo! He even says, "We have no need for music
"We have no need for art, we have no need for theater;
"Nothing beautiful excites me, no, not even a warm body
"Or vulva for my flower, not even the great Laments of Shakespeare
"Or the wisdom of Dostoevsky. Not the beauty of Mozart
"Not the voluptuous body of Venus without her arms.
"Nothing is beautiful, nothing is good. I have never loved
"For what is love? I hate my world, and wish it to fall into the abyss."
For his covetousness is severe, that he has no desire;
Nothing for which he wishes or wants.
Not even death. Not even life. Not even purgatory.
He wants nothing, for anything in his grasp he already has.
Thus, he wishes to cause this same frustration on those,
Whom seeing their desire, and their zeal for life---
He wishes it all to stop.

God can never be
Tempted. Satan, in Job's book
Tempted God to test.
Yet, to tempt has two senses.
God can never be tempted.

As in, He can not
Even for a second be
Caused to muse a sin.

So, when Satan would
Tempt Jesus in the desert
He could not cause doubt.
Thereby, Jesus could not be 
Tempted in the slightest bit.

My Official Statement:
Just let the man be.
He did nothing so serious
That other presidents hadn't agreed.

Let the man live his life in peace...
Or else... I do say... we shall lose our country.

People on the left, stop fighting the evil fight.
Trump was not a villain, and I was never right.
My mind, my mind, it had had a dream.
From flesh it came, from flesh it wrought,
So, let this man just be.

What influence do I have?
I a poet who none had known?
My wisdom was sublime,
But like a fly in ointment it smelled.
A little foolish thought, I had while aught a man
In prison for my crimes, of which I had my stand.

Am I really so influential?
Am I truly a sage?
Let this man go
Or shall the nations be sent in rage.