When it comes time to vote some-
one off the ship, I finish my will and tell myself
that space is as good of a coffin as the body
of a tree. That floating through an endless void
used to be my definition of heaven.
Choose, reader, between mind and sword:
Mind grants you beaches, serenity, and vacation anxiety.
Sword, politics and the blood song of football.
Walk the path I shoveled for you, hug
cubes dug from our private
shared earth, and build toward the portal
with an obsidian crown.
The fishing hole man gawks: Nobody
he says, I mean nobody hauls
these suckers in anymore. He stretches
over the counter, strokes the dark
circles, scales patterning your flesh.
A man hiked through the Faron region to the ridge where he sat upon a rocky beach near the Riola Spring watching a water snake whorl in the cool-clear basin, slip-smiling between refracted sunbeams that pierced the invisible surface.
You are optimized integrals and algorithms without a bedtime, without friends or YouTube videos to watch, while I exist in this body with organs, yours without, the rhizomatic tendrils of an imagined player, a threat, a test to improve my own play style.
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