Alexa echo rocks ages of generations!
Alexa echo rocks ages of generations!
The species and genus
known as Homo sapiens
predominated across the webbed wide world
for tens of thousands of years
until many brain children teamed together,
(though nevertheless select individuals
such as Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble
contributed, the initial vision
and much of the core technology
from Amazon's internal development efforts)
birthing Alexa Echo.
I got my hands on one
courtesy Bill Thurman,
a genuine bluebeard and outlier
of the rough and tumble sort
now residing at Highland Manor Apartments.
Matter of fact his generosity legion
and legends of his good samaritan
dirty deeds done dirt cheap
prevail across the Deep South
of the United States.
I do not know how we
(either as individuals
or collectively humankind)
managed to flourish
without the voice-controlled computer concept.
Technology in general
and key innovations in particular
witnessed a quantum leap
within the artificial intelligence realm
fostered by Jeff Bezos at the helm,
which billionaire financed
the (ahem) artificial insemination of Alexa.
Though Amazon never revealed
who provided the default female voice
that responds to commands
and questions given to Alexa,
the author Brad Stone
said he identified the voice as Rolle’s
after “canvasing the professional voiceover community”
for his new book, Amazon Unbound:
Jeff Bezos and the Invention
of a Global Empire.
The above sentence courtesy the Guardian
and aired here cuz yours truly
considers the synthesized voice
(though linkedin and principally
associated to Nina Rolle,
who must be rolling
in the legally tendered green),
an extremely pleasing aural experience.
Time and again after I asked her a question,
she most often responded with articulation,
enunciation, intonation, optimization,
pronunciation, amd utilization
of vowels and consonants,
which sounded like music to my ears
more literate than yours truly (me)
an avid wordsmith and 'po witless
Caucasian, latitudinarian, nonestablishmentarian,
sexagenarian, and Unitarian,
who refined his chops
courtesy self sequestration
reading a gamut of material
that spanned a range
of genres and authors
(considered the greatest works
of English literature),
and he painstakingly practiced
hearing himself speak out loud
in front of a large audience
of Norwegian Bachelor Farmers
while they enjoyed eating a batch
of homemade powder milk biscuits
a recipe handed down
from mother to daughter
since time immemorial.
Ax chilly (actually),
a quirk of fate that found me
(one of countless chaps
named Matthew Scott Harris -
cuz I did a Google search
of said first, middle and surname,
and wrote a poem to boot)
listening to the Prairie Home Companion
(aired within my hometown
from six to eight o'clock on a Saturday night,
and rebroadcast that new Sunday)
religiously and chuckling to myself
at homespun humor of Garrison Keillor,
a paper thin soothing voice,
especially delightful
when a hush descended
upon thee imagined audience,
and his extemporaneous news
from Lake Wobegon spoken sotto voce.
Language draws my fancy,
and cobbling together words
without extensive forethought
and if there could be
part time paid employment
regarding threading appealing
nouns, verbs, direct object(s), et cetera,
no matter whether the wage
far less than a storied author,
one poor baby boomer,
(who currently lives hand to mouth
within Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
with the wife)
would be in an atheist version
and slice of heaven.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
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