Mega Man

I’m a machine, an alpha and omega. I’ve got the guts
to meet any goliath on his turf, to cut
him down with a well-placed shot. I turn elec-
tricks, whatever color I like, my blood to ice.
I can cream any master, be the fire
in his eyes. I’m the man. I’m the bomb.
I learn his patterns, parry his bombs,
get all up in his face, all up in his guts.
If I keep him running, he can never fire.
I own him with my fists, my uppercut
robotically smooth. I’m black ice.  
He spins out. I press select, select, select.
Once he’s sufficiently electrocuted,
I steal his clothes. I love his green bomber
jacket, his vintage Eighties snowsuit, ice
blue. For special occasions, I wear his guts
like pajamas. It’s destiny. We were cut
from the same die, forged in the same fire.
He teaches me to survive, to spark fire
and light the next man’s fuse. O, my elect-
oral officials, my rock-crushes-scissors-cut-
paper dolls—each one a blond bomb-
shell of a man I gut as an angler guts
the catch he hooks from a hole in the ice.
I take what I need: his chest of ice,
his scissor legs, his great balls of fire,
his superior arms. There are always more guts
to uncoil, more brains purely electronic
as mine. We were wired, like all good bombs,
with the need to explode, to undercut
anything within blast range, deep cuts
scarring our fuselage. Left to our own devices,
we will never be disarmed. We’ll bomb
a nation. We’ll spread like wildfire,
an unbeatable boss. If desire is electric,
let us shock. Let us spill our guts.