Every tiny paperclip cuts
a little as I roll. I thumbtack my duty
to daddy, learning to say yes, collect
every common desire. Zigzagging
through rooms, I am his invisible
dreaming, a shining sideways spell
fixing everything. To finish the mess
Summer, Day 15. My crops thrive, every leaf and vine coaxed into dancing with the breeze. The blueberries, tomatoes, and melons are teaching me grace. At dawn, the dew glistens. All day I listen to the carpenter, her hammer chants an old rhythm called “Creation.”
i think about how i told time
before evening cicadas before
when daisy mae cursed me with
bad turnip prices or without
the chimes that isabelle
installed when i sipped tea
and made someone smile
In my dream I did winged eyeliner
on one eye only. It looked ridiculous
and I wondered if I’d forgotten
how to apply it or if I’d gotten too used
to my face naked. Remind me again:
Directional pad, three buttons,
that’s all it was & it was too much
for a game where all there is
is run, run, jump, run, run
crouch & charge & run.
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.
