portion of the artwork for James Ardis's poem

(In a pool of their own blood)
James Ardis

During the day I am a poli sci major but really I am an aspiring part time amateur chef,
says the man with sideburns at the Slim Chickenz.

When I die I will still have access to my company listservs, keeping quiet by choice.
When I die I will ignore stories of your deaths, your deaths can’t compete with the
deaths I storyboarded.

When I die I will seek out the deceased spam mailers, the temporarily broke Nigerian
princes, the perennially pick pocketed backpackers and discover their latest scam
knowing that it’s all for the love of the cheat now, no profits here.

punishment for dying is discouraging, that the damage value of shotgun shells to the
chest in multiplayer is an insta-kill, a game-breaker. Gamers play games to win seven
Stanley Cups, pistol whip the Covenant, sniper shoot a cuckold. Gamers enjoy lying,
mouth open, in a pool of their own blood but at some point it does get concerning.

How should I quantify the damage value of falling down the fire escape? Your wife’s
fist against your collarbone in an otherwise empty parking lot? The damage value of
discovering the valedictorian of your school has two published articles in the field of
chemistry and a bullet in her head on the same strange evening in December.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 47 | Spring 2016