Tecmo / Barry was pretty good, but he couldn’t dance like the real / Barry, just like how I could run fly patterns for my dad / in our front yard but in a pick-up game even the easiest / passes bounced off my hands.
>look
you can barely see
through the dark
the boxes of baseball cards
a pink panther action figure
I thought
your hair
across the grid of a pillow’s weave
was a code I could input for flying
A cold sea to continue:
our facets rise like curious merfolk, tattooed
with a doctor scribble—we must have been
young or writing with our left hands.
what is it like?
lightning, clearly;
all atomic foofaraw;
the glint on the scales of a trout.
We think video games are literature, and so why shouldn't there be literature about video games? That's the question we're hoping to answer here. Read more.
