These pictures slide by like salt
saturated on steak and water.
Cholesterol is monotone
and every cigarette is a smoke signal
asking my ancestors to stop
sending me genes
and photographs.

I can’t use.

Frankly, I watch black and white screens
and swear to my mother her hair looks better silver
than pitch whatever it is
the remaining patriarchs think is appropriate for age.

Again, I don’t like talking about how
August is just a number,
but I’ve numbed nothing if not clocks
and my father’s watch;
waiting on my wrist for an older man
to set it right.

Settle in the time frame sans plight
and indicted memories.

Sans my language and lore look at that damn bird these distractions sell well and weddings wreak hell on budgets so I’m saving up,

saving my luck-

ridden birth certificate sins are handed over like good food
on the first and last day of Ramadan.

Remember this when you’re but pixels too.