Cowboy Poem

The bruise vivid as a fool 
the little cluster in shades of purple 
like one of those pictures from deep space 
the pillars of creation the blah blah nebula 
the hamfisted way beauty emerges 
from randomness and I got it myself 
from running an object into the object 
that is my body that human place 
that doesn’t make sense but keeps on 
working the thunderous heart 
lumping like a cow’s heart I believe 
though I’ve never felt the heart 
of a large animal I’ve never ridden a horse 
like they do in the books the knees tight 
against the glistening barrel of its torso 
two beings in love with what’s been given 
the enormity of the mind the pattering rain 
gunning the tin roof of the stable 
the retirement plan quivering 
in its languid middle class ennui 
the bruise glowing like an old man’s lantern 
the saddle the bridle the bit 

I Wait for the AI 

To write a religion I believe in 
but the technology just isn’t there yet. 
Give it another six months. 

Being an artist is just another phase, 
like a kid who eats the glue sticks 
for a month or two but then gives it up 

for bullying, that divine fancy 
of the original gods. We’re only getting older 
the longer we sit here, and the old man 

said oldness is a topic worth studying 
so I shook a sycamore branch at him 
and said go to your room. 

The branch’s autumn leaves shimmered 
like the scales of a python. The python 
knows the origin of the universe, 

how god blessed the bacteria in your gut. 
The AI is typing away, sweating. To believe, 
wander the Mongolian steppe alone.