of Video Games
It was Bridgette’s most difficult torch.
It was space pirates and helpless computers and
strapping the girl to the chair
and pods and buttons and maudlin manuals for
self-destruction recorded in her boyfriend’s whine.
So the Conference of Clairvoyant Christian Chiropractors
adjourned to the safe and my dog Marx licked Karl.
Karl’s grouchy. Karl doesn’t like it.
So my sadness and I and a bottle of Jim Beam
turned off the adventure and voted for the darkness.
But the moon puddled all over it like milk and Bridgette
was playing with all these swimmy fishes
her boyfriend gave her before the aliens
ignited the emotional fuel that held them together
and dropped biscuits to soak up the mess.
So Bridgette bundles up the baby in hair and straps
the computer to the dog’s bark which doesn’t help
the Christians conquer any pods of
self-destruction or remove the bucket of wet
biscuits which isn’t reasonable anymore no it isn’t.
Karl purrs and Marx barks at the Christians.
How did they get in here? The closet’s full so
I have to open the ceiling. It’s dark
so how come I haven’t won? The safe seems
to be empty but the emptiness isn’t safe.
If you have any comments on this poem, Rich Ives would be pleased to
hear from you.