we drop into one of the void spaces / so common in these games / only to land in the bottomless dark / in a place / both within and outside the game / where true life / twinkles out of reach / resembling merry moons / orbiting an absent planet / and the only way out is dying
I used to crouch, run electricity through my body too,
so, no one could reach the purple parts
of my visibly green skin. Ask anyone who tried
to love me before I turned twenty-five.
i say
i am waiting
for my uncles to finish paintballing
in the adventure park out back
they are just over there
my many uncles
their many guns
Your absence is a precinct.
I question it daily.
It offers no statements,
Only glass, fogged.
A radiator hums low socialism.
Do you alone recall folding through houses
like hands on a clock,
how your bones shrank into the space
between tatami and floor?
The wife wets her hands with daikon,
waits for the day you unlearn thank you.
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.
