reflections of my face on the PSP screen in an alternate universe, in which, Liberty City Stories came with a demo of Tales of the World: Radiant Mythology
in GTA, I enter a cheat code to play as a Diablo.
at eleven, I hunger to see myself and salivate at the sight
of polygons. triangles
of blood clipping against the sidewalks
are easier on the stomach
when caused by clubbed hands, my own
have been predicted to become
I am still young enough to hit
the mold of a trigger’s edge
with joy; not yet
knowing the ghosts
of men behind them.
at twenty-six, I am well acquainted.
it was a lifetime ago
us boys could chuck knives
in radiators. now
when we have nothing
to hide, seeds find
their way in our homes; in our cars;
petals are plucked;
the mortar of our faces
against an asphalt pestle.
some still believe
in cheat codes: combinations
of buttons working; donning
cabinet picks while our children
the same clothes in
the same cages.
rip open the command terminal.
slash command teleport those kids
directly back to their families
and put them in the biggest house
and give them infinite money
and set all the guards on fire
and resurrect those
we still raise toasts
for over graves
a bastard sword is swung
by a displaced woman (smelling sunflowers)
and swims right through the existing wound
of a battery, no longer needed because
my mother buys the game for my twelfth birthday,
after she sees my frown uncurl to sing
for a tree, who allowed my breath to nourish
its leaves and ripped a redbud from its own crest
to say I belonged in this world, which had
just devoured my own