Palely Azoic, by Zach Buscher
My pigment & its lack.
My pigment pegs me for a gamer.
Which, to your surprise, I am not.
Today’s games total yesterday’s offspring.
& yesterday lacks contingency.
Upon me, a Futurist.
Forward thinking as my forbears are fossilized.
Italians & Russians mostly.
Their bayonets flapped golden tickets in the sun.
They dug latrines & sat gilded upon them.
Fate was dressing for the front lines.
Your logic is likewise dial-up.
Calls for if a Futurist, I’d be out there too.
I’d be out there, ushering era with a wave.
But your logic’s old as the flag, full of holes & precedent.
Like the war it lacks any sense of progress.
Though to bad credit waged reductively as a button.
Gamers call it a God Key.
One touch extinguisher.
If that’s what you’re into.