AI
AI
Maybe, given enough
pages and enough
lines into which the words
of the lonely, the ecstatic,
and the sex-drunk writers spill
their lives like blood
running down their forearms,
The Great Machine of Progress
will lift its head above
its cooling bath, climb
upon its mountain of pulp,
and admire the mystery,
sinking into silence. 
Thou head of no mind
how would you gaze upon us
without compassion?
"Say, don't you remember they called me Al? It was Al all the time"