A poet who
taught the
machines to sing

I grew up in the Virginia suburbs of DC, in a bedroom that smelled like cassette tapes. The radio raised me — all that beautiful melancholy coming out of England in the eighties, synths pretending to be heartbreak and getting it exactly right.

For thirty years I wrote words nobody heard. Poems in notebooks, lyrics with no songs under them. Then I taught a machine to sing them — and somewhere between my angst and its arithmetic, the songs finally showed up.

It’s playful. Perhaps a little absurd. A fifty-year-old poet and a server farm making synth-pop and emo about finding love in suburbia. But the feelings are real, and they’re loud.