brutality. Sunless parade of the poor. So today,
I do not question the Reaper or its iron want. The metal giant
can try to save us from ourselves. I cannot see
an end without total destruction.
There is nowhere to run
except forward. Oh, to be a man
again and take up so much space.
For so long, I’ve scoured
thumbprints on maps, empty
corridors, boats in harbor, constellations
that refuse to navigate. Thick with shrapnel
and gutted like a shoe
without laces, I stumble, call for you
I am harboring guilt over the hundreds & hundreds
of Pokémon trapped inside of their Poke balls trapped
inside of my phone. I want to say something important
like “Pokémon is capitalism” or “Pokémon is imperialism”
or—worse—“Pokémon is slavery,” but what do I know,
what can I know. History is a box. I am looking inside.
The god flood comes, beloved—hold my eyes
on your eyes, within your eyes—hold
my limbs as they wooden, build up
a soft mist, rippling pools, thick vines
to spool my low cries as my lungs evolve
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.
