INVASION

Strides the war­rior forth from a GameStop, bear­ing a blast shield with a bla­zon gules; its cod­ed con­stel­la­tions, bul­let-peened, embed the absent mean­ing of the war. The event escapes, but Kry­on­MYnuTs rules: 30 kills: 4 deaths and no air strikes inter­vened. The kill-cam’s slow-mo cap­tures every death, cre­ates an image of pur­pose as the fake blood pools, as he t‑bags a prone oppo­nent stained with dull reflex. Hear each last sad breath, each scream.

FUEL

Unre­al and too real, the sur­gi­cal strike is san­i­tized. Per­spec­tive of the omni­scient mis­sile clos­es in to snow and 50 points. The sim­u­la­tion on the screen on the screen seeks anoth­er rag-head bas­tard. O effi­cient UAV, no rup­tured pipeline anoints the sand like the blood of your ene­mies. O Preda­tor, whose Hell­fire AGM’s rain forced assent, like you we repent noth­ing. Keep us safe, Lance of God by kill­streaks earned, end this war of saints.

TERMINAL

The sub­lime shakes under the thun­der of an inbound AC-130. Spooky. But oft, in lone­ly rooms, and ‘mid the din of enter­tain­ment sys­tems, death from above assumes an us and them. We see the movie that’s the news. For what shall it prof­it to gain a kill­streak reward if some boost­ing moth­er­fuck­ers bring the nukes. Break break break the beau­ty of cul­tur­al exchange. Lik­ing­Big­pLug wins again. “Load­ing game set­tings.” That’s what the thun­der said.

ESTATE

Stored in my brain is the germ of the faith. Side­walk bivouacked gamers await release. Their line is long. I am Thy crumb of dust. I saw my com­rades’ corpses van­ish, the rathe rap­ture come. One must strive with­out cease to believe what is revealed; such is the avatar, the liv­ing trust in situ. The host site is diver­sion, where­in true appre­hen­sion arrests the killing space. I am Thy crumb of dust. What is upon you call it peace. I am Thy crumb of dust. If I am giv­en a thou­sand lives I will sac­ri­fice them all for the cause. This is but one.

SCRAPYARD

Per­mit me now to present for your enter­tain­ment a minia­ture state. Once launched, the pro­gram loads a vio­lent hal­lu­ci­na­tion: an angel’s quill to fletch an RPG. Spent was I inside a Quon­set hut of cor­ru­gat­ed tin, bleed­ing out in Final Stand, life ration cut with mor­phine. The land was ours before the game end­ed. But mend­ed in after­life, we win. The sign of the times is a sign that real­iza­tion is a sign of the high score that won the war of the sign of the nation.

HIGHRISE

The oil slick spreads. It takes a lot to move me now the image is so dis­tant. Black the ground at Stalling Down; the blood was fet­lock deep. A wing-spread cor­morant stood in a pho­to. Brought to a point of sat­u­ra­tion. In a blind poet’s vision, Satan entered Eden thus. No escape from the enemy’s pre­ci­sion airstrike, but Shut­ting down in mid-game will cause you to lose your game bonus. Dropped from a B‑2 “Spir­it,” bombs sat­u­rate the tar­get. My ghost has left the build­ing, a tomb to jus­ti­fy the ways of man.

Joshua Mck­in­ney is the author of two books of poet­ry: Saunter, co-win­ner of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Geor­gia Press Open Com­pe­ti­tion, and The Novice Mourn­er, win­ner of the Dorothy Brun­sman Prize from Bear Star Press. His poems have appeared in hun­dreds of nation­al lit­er­ary jour­nals, and he has poems in recent issues of Den­ver Quar­ter­ly, New Amer­i­can Writ­ing, Phan­tom Drift, Ping Pong, and VOLT. His awards include the Dick­in­son Poet­ry Prize and a Gertrude Stein Award for Inno­v­a­tive Amer­i­can Poetry.