Silicon Valley bears the weight of my childhood. A constant empty. Contradictory
morals, the way it blooms. A heat wave, rage breathing, needing more
to burn on its way up. Icarus, incentive matters more than intent, now.
But, I want to remain gentle; softness is a commodity
in a fast world. It makes sense
why we are afraid.
Chat GPT analyzes my poetry—as a joke, of course.
I wanted to know what it thought. If it could think at all. Regurgitates:
ocean means vast. But, I meant grief.
How long is unethical work sustainable?
The hands who have put this together are made of stars—magic
and horrors I do know to be fact.
I asked it to summarize the mythologies of gods my mother told me about,
making it a sort of modern-day temple. I hate
the way it’s ominous. Void of life, all-knowing. Whisper-like.
I hear it always. Power,
bumping—365: let me provide you with information. Predict on demand.
Capitalism’s right hand reaches colors we can’t comprehend. Again.
Irony. A student in my literature class never read the work but answered,
reading off scripted words. Got away
with not caring about anything but the time saved.
A slow disappearing act, like sunset or wisdom.
Learning is a privilege, especially art.
The kids know how to pretend better than they know how to be kids,
and I am guilty. By this I mean, what will be genuine?
I do not know the difference between a lie and a better one.
–
Nitika Sathiya is a poet, community organizer, and woman in STEM. She was a 2022 Alameda County Youth Poet Laureate.
