The core of any computer
is the motherboard. Cops,
priests, the Medicis, Lehman
Brothers, all must bow
to circuitry named for the woman
who bore us all. We warm
our hands over resistors,
capacitors, parts none of us
have names for, and expect music.
We feed them: more memory, better
processors (though the days
of the daughterboard are long past)
endless lines of code. And yet
whether they sing seems often guided
by the hands of imps, the whims
of shysters bearing soldered flowers.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances include The Literary Yard, Big Windows, and Locust, among others.