Two Poems by Prince Bush
March
On day 28, the vulture,
white-backed, circles the top, knows
he’s endangered by humanity in his black
face. Constitutional in town, he’s hungry
for soft tissue. It has to be soft. Only one
more. He’s been scarfing elegies down,
so many he couldn’t fly—
but rest and soak in it, his back to the sun.
We vanish tomorrow; the concrete cures;
we, the silicon and nickel,
we, the sun but versus earth
gravity; on leap years, sometimes copper,
close to moon month, no more than two
prime factors of natural. If
you’re remembered this month,
you’re remembered. You’re no living
thing. You know that in the gut.
Trigger warning: “Player versus Player” contains fantasy violence (video game)
Player versus Player
Lúcio, Overwatch, 2015
The smell of urine and feces,
the smell of flowers and fragrance
so dense it fills your wound’s tissue
and grows dead skin in others.
You shoot a song at people, end their lives
with a handle and trigger attached
to a loudspeaker, and its amping up
makes everyone dodge. It’s like being
shot with a back massager and 2600 feet
per second, you imagine, the green bullet
parachutes out your gun, and the song
levels your enemies; enemies, your levels,
have songs too. Too, songs have
twins and vitals, hair, sweat and heart
video game tangles. You search for a controller
charger, and the jet in the console starts.
What if something happens, you’re winning
or losing, yet something happens?
You create and destroy both
what-ifs. Find the chord. Cool the air.
Best your twin, the other team’s
healer. Then the victory music.
Nothing seems to change
because of this music,
and you, sitting down, listening,
playing someone who couldn’t, or stand to
sit—your weapon of shelter, water, and food
jammed on earth.