After a star has lived its life
and run out of nuclear spirit,
after its atmosphere thins out
and its heart falls in upon itself,
after it explodes in all colors of the
rainbow and beyond,
diffuse rivers of its flesh pool
and form sunset clouds lightyears across.
Atoms from the star, in its grave,
encounter each other
one by one, maybe with refugees from
another stellar wake
and shake hands, come together, make
rocks and dirt, build houses, and eventually
sunflowers.
I automated cotton milling
then I automated knitting
I automated horses
then automated auto making
I automated chess and checkers
and automatically read the news
I automated chicken and pork
and automatically supersized you
I automated entertainment
before I automated art
I automated music
and I automated poems
I automated learning
I automated conversation
I automated relationships
especially transactions.
I automated life and
I automated love
I automated automation
And what was left?
sleeping and shitting
eating and gristle
horror and the wrath of god –
and cleaning up the messes
the robots keep making
