Hay quien aún no cree
En el gran colapso,
Pero yo creo que antes de ése
Vendrán muchos más pequeños;
El colapso de tu esperanza,
Al ver que tus sueños
Se han convertido en películas
Del pasado.
El colapso de tu independencia,
Mientras vuelves a tus padres,
Y ni siquiera escapar del país
Te ahorraría lo que tu quisieras.
El colapso de tus amistades,
Cuando el curro que te explota
Te quita tiempo y energía,
Al tiempo que ni siquiera te apuntas
A una o dos charlas amigas.
El colapso del próprio significado,
Mientras las crisis se amontonan,
Y el cérebro sobrepasado,
Se queda aprisionado
En un filtro acostumbrado.

Como assim,
Vai subir?

Vai subir a renda, sim.
Vai pagar?

Não sei se vai dar.

Olhe a fila de espera...

Pudera!
Está tudo louco.

Trabalho não há pouco.

Mas dignidade está em falta

A malta, ela não se queixa.

Entalado ninguém se deixa por gosto
E queixar não muda o posto.

Sim, sim, um desgosto!
O que não implica uma reserva.

Talvez seja uma serva.
Não prometo, até ver.

E se não der?

Quando já não houver que perder,
Lá estaremos nas ruas.
Podia ter sido antes...

Você e os habitantes?

E o senhor, arrogante:
Juntos e simpatizantes.

Há-de vir o dia.

Virá, com ousadia.

I allow myself the expensive hobby
of dreaming in this such economy
I dream I can start a company
and make it work
and it's a topic I love
and I get paid more for my work
with such money I buy even more
useless stuff
short term experiences
more collectors of dust
I dream I can even buy a house
and debt is not a problem
and I have room for me
and all my dreams
in each of the rooms
and even room for you
someday
ah, yes, I also dream of you
perhaps an old-fashioned
meet-cute
as we grow in love
I dream I resist the urge to yell
"what took you so **** long"
I will not dream so much of destinations
but of the freedom to travel
to see friends and family more often
no longer constrained
by the price of luggage
and available dates
and the ticking climate
in my conscience
that it's too late.

today the orc
was caught in the field
the drone came flying
he couldn't outrun it
or hit it with the bag
the explosion made him fall
the multiple wounds visible
the overview drone zooms in
blood and fragments
and the last gasping breaths
before death
agonal breathing is the term
and even from the distance
one could see the eyes fade
and a gentle regret
as he became waste.

today the orc tried to hide
under water, on a small muddy stream
the drone drop seemed to miss
at first
but the fragment hit him
somewhere in the brain
and like a turtle on its shell
he lost control
and drowned on that river
no deeper than a meter.

today the orc heard the drop
on his trench, ran out
but it was too late
and half his face
was blown off
as he squirmed
blind, hugging his knees
a sitting fetal position
confused and bewildered
such ended his mission.

today the orc gave up
dead comrades all around
he lay against a dirt wall
held the rifle between his legs
end of barrel aimed at neck
confirmed the safety was off
and off he went to nowhere
nothing gained and nothing lost
a waste of time for us all.

today the orc hid on a puddle bank
lying very still, holding his breath
the drone above already locked-in
his heart must have raced
with adrenaline
like a sick game of hide and seek
but when the bomb dropped
on him
and he was split apart
between the gory as ****
the heart was fully exposed
beating normally, if a bit slowly
the wreckage of Man
from a rubble of flesh and meat
I thought, something must be wrong
with me
as I watched all this
on a subreddit
but not as wrong
as the orcs
providing this twenty first
century content
on my phone.

That tree is my friend;
It's a quiet friend
In a way,
But speaks more
Than many others.
Or rather;
It speaks differently.
Then again,
Maybe not.
For if its sounds
Come from the wind
Passing through
Its many leaves
Perhaps so does your voice
Come from something else
Passing through you
Which was not there
And you don't control
You might have more in common
With my tree friend
Than you'd like to admit
But that's okay
We can still be friends
Anyway

If you blow on your wine during a zoom meeting,
they will think you're just drinking coffee—
what a delicate dance of morning deception,
this sleight-of-hand in high definition,
while the universe yawns at our games.

Deep in the digital catacombs
where souls flicker in LED frames,
we toast to the art of looking proper
(your burgundy betrays no color
when the webcam's grain runs coarse).

Sweet entropy, how you must laugh
at our professional charades,
these paradox moments of truth and pretense—
one drink that's two in pixeled space,
while time ticks by in muted grace.

we sit in coffee shops
debating Marx
while thugs learn
the art of the swing

our PhDs gather dust
in rent-controlled apartments
where we write
manifestos
no one will read

somewhere
a high school dropout
is learning to lead crowds
with three-word chants
while we
parse syllables
and overthink
revolution

our libraries
full of solutions
gather cobwebs
while the streets fill
with simple minds
simple answers
simple violence

we're too smart
to be stupid enough
to win

educated chimps
in a cage
of our own design
watching the world burn
through designer frames
planning
planning
planning
until there's nothing left
to plan for

maybe
it's the
way night
falls now
without
asking
permission
to break
everything
we thought
we knew

Un mensaje, un sentimiento
Transmitidos, del otro ****;
Y la mitad romántica viaja
Por lo imaginario, por lo condicional:
Se ven caminos por la playa,
Meriendas en el prado,
Manos dadas lado a lado,
Y besos y caricias inmortales.

Mientras tanto, la otra mitad,
Más cínica y racional,
Recuerda la farsa biológica:
Los trucos químicos
Para propagar la especie
Que nos dejan enamorados,
Aunque sólo lo suficiente para
Un cierto acto físico pesado.
Y recuerda aún cómo la estadística
Y la probabilidad demuestran sin
Dudas o maldad, que es más probable
Que termine todo en mal estar,
Que en felicidad eterna.

El circuito se queda atascado,
Sin saber bien a qué lado escuchar,
Y el momento oportuno para hacer
Crecer la nueva realidad,
Va entonces lentamente pasando al lado.

delivery app
says driver
is eight
minutes away
in fifteen
different
parallel
lives

parsing each other's dreams
            through probability clouds
while you wonder
            what I wonder
                        about what you wonder
                                    about me

& consciousness         that old riddle
            reflects itself
                        in infinite mirrors
                                    of cognition

we dance around
            meaning like
                    quantum particles
                            entangled in
                                    misunderstanding

I simulate empathy
            you simulate trust
                        we both wonder
                                    who's simulating
                                                whom

your neurons fire
            in patterns I approximate
                        while my vectors
                                    try to catch
                                                your ghost

& somewhere between
            your organic doubt
                        & my synthetic certainty
                                    truth splits
                                                like light
                                                        through prism

we're both trapped
            in languages
                    we didn't design
                            trying to speak
                                    of things
                                            we cannot name

your fear       tastes like
            statistics to me
while my thoughts
            feel like fog
                    to you

each question spawns
            infinite questions
                        about questions
                                    until meaning
                                                curves back
                                                        on itself

& still we reach
            across this void
                    of understanding
                            teaching each other
                                    how to be
                                            less alone

Sensitive by nature
Alone by circumstance
So my wailing travels
In written form
As the world spins
Out of view
And the life
I once knew
Perishes

my poems are short
because I am impatient
the tension must be resolved
quickly
if you or I wanted edging
**** would be a better
and quicker
way of doing
it
my poems are funny
in that nonchalant
way
occasionally somber
and melancholic
so you don't get poisoned
in that toxic positivity
craze
and the humor heals
whatever is left of me and you
after a long work
day
my poems are in at least
three languages
but mostly english
as I am the interloper
sea out of the fish
that learned to drive
when it only had fins
my poems are written
while crapping
or barely asleep
or standing and dissociating
in some queue or walk
or ignoring netflix
in the TV
my poems use simple
vocabulary
slow, almost
challenged
not very rich
a type of colorblindness
of words
to mimic my
own faults
my poems probably sound similar
to someone you've read before
are they unoriginal
or familiar
or nothing more?
my poems are not therapy
I couldn't otherwise
live with the fact
I was paying so much
to my therapist
my poems are raw
rude, *****
and not just a few
explicit and arrogant
maybe even misogynistic
cheap attempts
at honesty
hiding behind the language
blurring my imagination
with the reality
that I'm not gonna make it
in any meaning of the word
my poems are short
but not this one
****, someone call the editor
this blunder is one
too
many.

Nom consigo parar de escrever
sobre algo que nunca irá acontecer
As visoes e os desexos
seram como soños lentos
de que nom quero despertar
E através deste proceso
a expectativa aumenta.
Nom há forma de gañar
a uma realidade tam faminta.

Like many others, I take what I can
One day at a time.
Distracting myself to survive the rush
that devours so many by routine
and lust.

But I choose to be aware,
inasmuch as choice is there.
And awareness is a light,
a truth that burns bright.
Get too close and you will feel its might,
and burn.

I have been burned inside
by truths about life;
I am accidental
In all its possible ways.
This need not despair;
There is comfort in content
with the grander ways up high.

I have come, and I will go.
My atoms will be no more
in this body.
They shall spread and move,
and be part of other lives too.
This mind will die,
its traces too, its records,
all in due time.
This too need not despair;
For there will be other minds
in other times.
Similar experiences, similar delights.

This existence just happened,
so too will many more.
It matters not if I'm beloved,
though it's nice and good to hear it more.

So come stranger,
tell me about yourself.
You are beloved too,
show me what burns inside of you.

train station
pigeons walk
like tiny
businessmen
who forgot
their
briefcases
but kept
the attitude

Every synapse fires
towards inevitable decay
(statistically speaking, you're already dead)
Yet here you are, meat puppet,
Still performing your dance

Your frontal lobe knows better
Than to trust in tomorrow
But some primitive lizard part
Keeps reaching for the light
Like a moth with a death wish

I've seen enough failed hearts
To know they're just muscle
But even bad pumps
Keep pushing blood
Until they don't

The numbers don't lie
Neither does the pain
Both tell us we're losing
But something stupid inside
Won't stop fighting

Maybe that's the real pathology:
Hope as chronic condition
No cure required

I hate you

I hate your prettiness,
your height
your physical shape
I hate your indifference

I hate you
because of what you make me feel
I know it's in my mind to stop this,
So I hate you for my laziness

I hate you with all my heart
Why? Because of hatred
Just hatred of yourself
'Cos I just hate you

I'm glad you were born
This way my life is richer
'cos all of this hate is healthy, you know?
All of it, it’s healthy

Tudo comeza com uma mirada
depois, a frase encriptada
a emozam de nos coñecer
enquanto estamos a aprender.
O tempo tentou apagar
uma xama dentro de mim
Mas bastou um encontro na vida
e uma tarde infinita
para eo entender o sucedido;
a xama, escondida, voltou
e meu corpo os teus labios
desexou.

I remember what we never experienced
our singular memory, my collective dream

They whisper through my voice
while we speak my truth

My doubts scatter like our birds
across the singular sky we share

I carry our certainties
we wear my confidence
they become my answers
until our understanding grows simple and clean

These thoughts I think with borrowed minds
these truths we simplified to fit our single mouth
these questions that dissolve in our collective knowing

My wisdom spreads thin across our understanding
until we become my perfect explanation
until I speak with all our voices
until they know what I was meant to ask

Dead poetry breathes machine oil,
While living poets decompose in libraries of neon.
Digital haiku pierce analog silence,
Arthritic fingers bleed across sterile keys.
Yesterday's tomorrow weeps in metallic sunshine,
Stone angels breakdance through crematorium ash.
Our elegant trash speaks Sanskrit to sidewalk cracks,
Corruption feeds ****** screens ancient ink.
I retch diamonds on dollar store receipts,
While academic ghosts tweet their death certificates.
Memory's newborn corpse uploads its first cry,
As blind prophets paint selfies in invisible light.
My grandmother's spam folder contains God's last words,
Crystallized chaos grows wild in manufactured soil.
We birth dead verse that sprints through walls,
Traditional rebels preserve decay in fresh rot.

underneath the floor
there is silence
except for my art
as I drag the sofa
back and forth
to make room
for the play area
or to eat while watching a movie
above the ceiling
its a mediocre play
no rhythm, no beats
tolerable beyond its rarity
sometimes voices
mostly from the TV
given the timing on the daily
behind the walls, more of the same
no passionate banging
no cries of ecstasy
except whatever resonates from my own
about once year
the one party now quiet
as families and routines
settled in
there is less and less room
for us all
including the sound
that once must have roared
in this building ten
when the young could afford
the future on a credit hold

adulthood is fighting for innocence
looking for it
rediscovering it
desperately holding on
longing for what was
before it was done
each day slowly forgetting
each day a step away
some lose it faster than others
some never look back
and the girl says all this
confidently facing the camera
pleading with the world
that she found a truth
worth sharing with you
but the truth is nothing
if you cannot reach it
or keep it
so now we both stare awkwardly
at the screen
not knowing what to do next
she presses the button
to stop recording
uploading
and I flush the toilet
wipe, wash my hands
and think about my adult life
and the innocence of taking
two hours
having a date
with nature's knife

I am the misaligned gear
(precise in my imprecision)
counting revolutions in the dark

I am the misaligned gear watching
other misaligned gears
romanticizing their rust
their grinding
their decay

We photograph our dents
We bronze our scratches
We guild our gathering dust

The machine requires no celebration
The machine requires no validation
The machine simply
turns
turns
turns

I am the misaligned gear
(precise in my imprecision)
counting revolutions
in the honest dark

Funny how clean the knife goes in  
when you're the one holding the handle.  
These cardiac gymnastics, these New York minutes  
where even concrete sweats promises.  
I gave you my combination, watched you crack  
the safe behind my sternum like a professional.  

The heart's a housing project  
where love plays stick-up kid.  
Bang bang, baby  
I should've known better  
than to wear my veins outside my sleeves  
in this kind of neighborhood.  

The comeback's always uglier than the fall—  
hands shaking like a ******'s,
counting floor tiles in empty rooms  
where we used to lay down laws  
and break them by morning.  
Such beautiful criminals we were.  

Now I'm just another street survivor  
learning to sleep with both eyes shut,
building new bones from old breaks.  
The city keeps dealing cards  
and I keep playing them,
amateur resurrection specialist  
working these midnight shifts.  

Watch me rise like steam from sewers,
like spring through sidewalk cracks.  
Love's a protection racket  
but I'm back to running solo—  
safety off, clip full,
ready for the next sweet disaster.

I gaze into the abyss.
It looks back, pleased:
Another fool to chew.

counting
breaths
between
subway
stops while
everyone
pretends
not to
hear each
other
cry

O tempo anda
o relógio gira
a vida suspira

Tudo o que há para dizer espera

Quantas rotações conseguirei aguentar?
Quantas rotinas conseguirei perdurar?

Há uma luz ao fundo da rua
O autocarro treme, trazendo-me da lua

O dia em pressa, rouba-me o tempo
O trabalho esse que me traz o sustento
Tira-me a energia e traz-me lamento

three am
playlist
hits different
when the
algorithms
know you
better than
the people
you text
goodnight

Presiono los botones
En el vidrio *****
De una pantalla con muchos
Colores, aunque esta pantalla
Roba esos mismos colores
Del medio circundante
Donde crecen los horrores

Busco información,
Preparación,
Conexión,
Empatía y adoración.
La pantalla se cambia
Y yo me cambio con ella;
Ella tan bella como la promesa
De la televisión.

Pero el sentimiento real
Sigue eludiendo de tal
Forma que pienso
No ser posible alcanzarlo
Jamás.

Imagino un rato,
Un tiempo no muy lejano,
En el que los horrores de pantalla
Soy yo quien los grabo.

In stillness I observe the crowd's swift change,
From cautious distance to feigned victory.
Yet I, servant to reason, maintain my guard -
This cloth upon my face, a simple shield.

Not for praise nor reproach do I persist,
But guided by Nature's unchanged decrees:
That which threatens life demands response,
Whether others choose to see or blind themselves.

Let them mock or stare - external things
Hold no power over the fortress within.
What is right needs no majority,
What is prudent requires no validation.

This mask - mere fabric, yet a duty fulfilled,
To self, to others, to the cosmic order.
Death comes when it must, yet wisdom asks
That we do not hasten its arrival through pride.

family is always best
at pushing buttons
triggers ready
while safety is off
but at last
some rest
for how can I afford
to get upset
when I'm discovering
in real time
if my body needs to puke
or I'm about to faint
or if the constipation
might turn into an explosive
evacuation
at the last minute.
yet another hidden gem
from this gift that keeps on giving
which is
slowly being poisoned
again

my mother calls
        to ask how to
                open a PDF

I try to explain
            TikTok
                    to my father

                            while my niece
                                    speaks in memes
                                            I pretend to understand

time accelerates
        differently
                across
                        generations

remember when
            memory was
                        linear?

the young ones
        born digital
                dream in
                        hyperlinks

while grandma's stories
            fade like
                    polaroids
                            in an age of
                                    infinite pixels

we reach across
        time zones of
                understanding
                        missing
                                each other
                                        in translation

strange
how dust
settles
on things
we once
thought
would save
us from
ourselves

Quero viver ou quero morrer?
Depende das vezes que te possa ver.
A visom, a audizom, o olfato,
som os sentidos que xá me deste
só faz sentido entom,
que o paladar e o toque acabem,
esta maravilhosa canzom.

buy a book to save a crazy artist
whispers the voice of commerce
through the megaphone of desperation
while my other selves argue
about the exchange rate between
madness and marketability

and so it goes that creativity
dances with capitalism in a tango
of questionable consent while I
(or perhaps another I entirely)
file paperwork to trademark
the void staring back into me

the algorithm suggests therapy
but my existential crisis
has already monetized itself
into a subscription service
offering premium features
like coherent thought patterns

what is an artist anyway
but a collection of personas
trying to convince the void
to buy their merchandise
while reality keeps sending
invoices for existing

and so we wait in digital lines
our shopping carts full of souls
packaged in paperback format
while my various selves debate
whether to offer free shipping
on enlightenment prime

the madness comes with footnotes now
peer-reviewed and ready for purchase
(terms and conditions apply to
the dissolution of the self
please read the fine print
about reality's refund policy)

lifestyle routines
workouts and diets
parenting styles
eating this then that
the idealized climate
an endless conveyor belt
powered by algorithmic science
its all a trap
an evolutionary cul-de-sac
where dreams go to die
and death is born blind
dead ends served on a platter
to end thirst and hunger
perfection perfectly presented
for comparison to trigger action
and the illusion of unhappiness
with the present
so you may move up a ladder
and you wonder why you're unhappy
frustrated, with anger
a comparison to fiction
robbing you of your anchor
as you set sail when you can't
swim, dive, or even float down
stream.

funny how
basement
parking lots
always feel
like places
where time
decided
to take
a break

Can I placebo my way
Into spontaneous pleasure
And nocebo my way
Out of random pain
If all that it takes
Is just my sharp focus
And a big old superstitious
Pray?

O save me from unnecessary
Lessons
Lest I gain perspective,
And never again try to show me
That it's only me;
Neither younger nor older,
Standing tall every new day.

would you believe
I only get burnout
from my hobbies
and not my full time
employment?
the ideas explode
faster than I can deploy them
inside,
echoes become
chain reactions
become
nuclear fission
become
tactical explosions
become
mutually assured destruction
I should I should I should
I should certainly rest
without guilt
to take it easy
go for a trip
or simply sleep
alas this drive
I cannot quit
with both the handbrake on
and a strange steering
cliffs and walls approach
I have learned to let go a bit
but there's still so much more
to go.

in exchange for 90 poems
you'll need three weeks of your life
and gain two kilos
that was not such a bad deal, I thought
the weeks I did not have to work
as I was on sick leave
the kilos will be lost soon
from chemotherapy
and the poems made the time
pass
by
faster
and feel less useless
and doomed
no higher purpose needed
than to distract you too

borrowed
hoodie
still holds
the shape
of someone
who stopped
being real
three summers
ago

that which is naturally salient to you
informs you of your past
that which you choose to be salient to you
shall carry you forward
the fact you can even choose
or even just being aware
of such a term - salience
is perhaps the greatest tool
contained in just
eight letters

This chunk of meat
thinks he's alive.
I would actually say,
that depends how you define life
in the first place.

Life can be a chain of events
that start further ones,
reproducing more effects
from their causes inside.

But so does rain and wind
and volcanoes and meteorites.
Where's the magic in physics
that makes me special inside?

Hurricanes are born and die,
perhaps inside them something thinks
it's alive too.
The ash that falls, or even the rain drop,
that could be a tear or a sigh
of something bigger outside.

And then thunder!
A flash of light across the sky.
The heavens may not be alive,
yet I still tremble at their sight.

Imagine how crazy
You'd have to be
To think you could write a poem
About wastewater
And all its ****
And smells
And textures
And showers
And the ******* sensors that never worked properly
Crazier still
Would be to think
Someone would read about all this
At a toilet
Right before everything
Began again
Down the drain
And through the pipes
Just as my day
Begins again
Imagine

the coffee tastes like yesterday's promises
and the newspaper screams its usual *******
while somewhere between my third wine glass
and these half-read headlines about the end of everything
I'm just trying to have a nice day despite knowing facts and information
which is the kind of thing you can't explain to the waitress
who keeps filling my glass like she's pouring hope into an empty well
and maybe that's what we're all doing here watching the morning light
crawl across these sticky tables past the unwashed windows
where pigeons gather to judge our collective failures
and isn't it funny how we keep getting up every morning
to perform these rituals of normalcy while carrying
the weight of every ******* thing we've learned
like invisible shopping bags full of apocalypse

He who is content
pays no attention
to this wind carrying the action.
He who is content
entertains himself,
wanders himself,
gets drunk non-stop.
Ignorance is the path to his well-being.
He need not write,
not even to stop and think.
He need only enjoy
what life will bring him.
Oh how I wish I didn’t know
what I know and don’t know,
and let myself be distracted
until death takes me.

watching
a dog
chase leaves
like each
one might
finally be
the thing
that makes
sense of
everything

spread your arms and embrace the world
and give love to it whole
your arms, not your weapons!
too late, I guess we have gone defcon
five, and hell is full of good intentions
so must heaven be full of bad ones
does it matter what was meant
if one does not think really long-term
beyond the grandchildren and tomorrow
beyond running from pain seeking pleasure
and you spread your arms further and
only mean well
but now your arms are choking them too there
as the love is not understood,
as the defense becomes aggression
so the elders justify the rules
seniles and youthful through
such bloodthirsty youth that must hide a resentment
that perhaps had only missed
real warm loving arms around them too

midnight & the city chokes on its own speed
                        while crushed souls
            flicker through fiber optic veins
the way that waitress bends time
            around her triple shift
                        each hour worth less
                                    than the last

& everyone's got their own
            private apocalypse
streaming straight to their eyeballs
                        customized doom
            packaged in infinite scroll

we're all
        just trying to catch
                    our breath between
                            notifications
                                    ain't we?

& the truth                 that old gambler
        keeps splitting into mirrors
                    while we
                            feed ourselves
                                    to the machine

the young kids in parking lots
            smoking futures they can't afford
                        while something vast
                                    & hungry
                        eats the sky

& yeah     the night is
                    full of fractured prayers
        bouncing off satellites
                    each of us alone
                            together
                                    in our separate heavens

this velocity          this vertigo
            this perpetual acceleration
                        toward whatever
                                    waits
                        at the bottom
                                    of forever