Kevin Killian

Silicon

Sara, I love ice creeping over napalm, an acrostic that begins with your name, and continues with six more words, the initial letters of which, spell out “silicon” just like the native valley where we live and learn from. Silicon valley, like nothing on earth, revolves around a few famous legends, compare it to the poetry world with Claudia Rankine to the East and Ferlinghetti to the west, from M. Nourbese Philip in the North to, who’s a southern poet, oh, Sandra Simonds.

However it profits from the genius of Christian Bok who invented the whole shebang once upon a time, in a garage band with Steve Jobs and Bill Gates and Woz, a boys club, Sara, from which the figures of Ada Lovelace and those women of Cape Canaveral have been hidden, occluded.

Scenting their little boxes in their garages in that valley, we began to live like the little foxes of the Bible, first chasing our tails, then chasing the rare earth elements that nothing human should possess. Leave silicon to the hidden spirits of the earth that brought its scent to linger among us, let the nature of information gathering systems eat themselves up, and how is this like poetry? Every day we think about Studio One and try to come up with better answers for our children, and we look at the few remaining animals of world, and weep, strange tears of silicon like Man Ray pebbles on our faces. Sara, I look inside crude occlusions now.