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.
I hope you’re still watching these numbers grow
because the sun refuses to set and I cannot
extract the sound of axe on trunk, of the split body
from my bones. I keep growing sharper
because the sun refuses to set and I cannot
separate the chaff of all this cold experience
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.
