YOU STREET FIGHTER
this hunched hombre could grip greater things
than those silly plastic knobs he is
intent, focused, saving the world, his honor, his
Perhaps he is cutting his Criminal Justice class, but
Street Fighter 2 could safely be termed
Perhaps he's waiting for his beautiful girlorboyfriend to arrive
and will stand up and wipe his lips,
and sweep himorher up into a manly kiss,
and lead himorher to his Acura, where they will drive into the sunset
or to Gameworks.
Not bloody likely,
but likelier than your silly costumed avatar, hombre, you
You lonely machine-operator. You save your starries and your stories for a 2-d 64k Shanghai, and the satisfying
of a roundhouse kick.
You bounce from barrels and eject fiery spurts of your chi, roaring nonsense words at
And there are hints of Mr. Miyagi when you lean over, of unspoken power
AB left, for a backflip
All the energy of your transfixed bulk aimed into those
You sail on the digital sea, hombre, you
street-fighting microsurgeon. You race and fly and punch and bounce and roll and flip and repeat and rise, rise, rise to the roof
of the abandoned warehouse
flexing as numbers in the sky count up to a million.
You master. You prince of princes, you quiet acrobat in a hazard-filled Shanghai, you high score, you virtual victor, you plugin boy, you sack of dextrous nothing, my brother.
Shanghai has disappeared, and you unlatch your mitts from the controls, and turn.
Your eyes graze mine as you lumber past, and I see
a million in the sky counting down.
Shuffle away, hombre. Balled and chained. Mute and feeble.
You street fighter.