funny how
we keep
building
homes in
people
who were
always
meant to
be
temporary

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

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 could stand to gain
from a bit more humility,
a bit more uncertainty;
To feel small next to the fjord;
To orbit the Earth from above,
rocking back and forth
as I am pulled back home.
To question my beliefs
once more,
no matter how long
they served me before.
Building new models in my mind
of what's possible, what's outside;
No longer afraid of being wrong, of failure;
instead afraid of that righteous allure,
the blind conviction,
the unquestionable truth,
that thirsts for blood of heretics
and seeks vengeance to soothe.

Today was a good day
I am depressed

Today was a good day
I am caressed
By the thoughts I have
By the cold embrace of my heart

Happy or sad, need it matter?
Never will there be no other
such as me

optimism left a voicemail
I deleted it without listening
(spam calls are getting creative
with their happiness scams)

don't let a good day distract you
from the failure you've become
the mirror keeps trying to sugar coat it
but I fired it for incompetence

my potential and I play hide and seek
I'm winning by never showing up
while mediocrity sends me
weekly employee of the month awards

tried therapy but my defense mechanisms
filed for union representation
now my emotional baggage has tenure
and better benefits than I do

happiness knocked on my door
I told it I was dead
(technically only on the inside
but semantics are for winners)

my rock bottom has a basement
with a fully stocked bar
and a framed certificate that reads
"congratulations on the consistent disappointment"

I live, I learn, I am aware.
In Nature, this brings me despair,
anxiety for all the causes and effects
outside my reach.

In Grace, however, this means
I let go of trying to win,
to survive even, to an extent,
my drive is accepting of causes
and effects alike.

Awareness then brings beauty as is
rather than what it ought to be.
To be calm in the storm,
to see beauty in tragedy or war
though still wanting and acting
to see it gone.

In Nature its game
has nutrients as the energy
and copies as reward
no matter the cost or the expense
to achieve that goal.

In Grace I wonder
if Love is the energy.
Grace itself is fleeting
in the rare moments when I live it.
I wonder if it weakens
and leaves me to be taken advantage of.
But oh to feel it, when it comes.
All is forgiven.

grocery
store at
midnight
feels like
permission
to exist
without
having to
explain
why

grocery store
tomatoes
politely
pretending
to remember
what summer
tastes
like

group chat
typing dots
dancing like
tiny gods
of almost
happening
things

I think they fumbled
when they said
we should pursue happiness
I now think that's something
you stumble
upon
like tripping down stairs
(and equally as painful)
except the bruise
tells you
a secret that neither
the floor above
or an elevator ride
could have told you
from trigger to response
stimulus intensifies
but you cannot stumble upon
without carving a gap
inside
to slow, to ponder
to chew without rumination
to wonder without
expectations
especially from ourselves
that's how you may find it
without hurry, without
anxiety
it'll be a gentle knock
least expected
that has finally
arrived

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

Las emociones son hechiceras;
traen ambiente a una experiencia,
pero me transportan fuera
de mi cuerpo, por un momento,
hacia ese espacio que no es real,
pero se siente a veces mal
dentro de mi mente, donde sólo,
lucho contra vergüenzas,
contra furia y tristezas.

Parece fácil, piensa lo racional,
escapar de algo tan fútil como
lo emocional.
¡Contrólate y pórtate!
Que nos haces pasar mal.
No tenemos tiempo que gastar,
en estas aventuras de lo sensacional.

Pero sí que son hechiceras,
estas emociones malditas.
Sin varitas o incantaciones,
me dan tentaciones,
cambian mi comportamiento,
mi pensar, mi humor,
y sin aliento me entrego,
para que pasen pronto,
y las vea lejos al fondo.

here—
take this
moment
I have
plenty
stored away
in places
where
winning
stopped
mattering
years ago

nothing quite smells like
fresh wastewater in the morning
they wanted me at the treatment plant
hovering over a pump that gave up
and knows better than all of us
that moving **** around is just a temporary fix
they want me over the sensor
that gave up in solidarity with the pump
and needs a bigger skin care routine
than all the women I've ever seen
the electric Peugeot van to get there
who only does the speed limit
also knows better than me
that there is no rush
to risk our lives
the **** will still be there
they want me at the meetings
it's important that we know what we're all doing
we wouldn't want to treat the ****
more than it needs to be
though I suspect the real reason
we're all there on a Monday
is so we don't feel completely alone
when we have to be
all the other days

must have aged decades
being in that theater of war
with all those other kids
searching for individual pixels
before the pixels
shot you
and the supplies were never enough
and the garrisons were overrun
and nobody coordinated on the mike
and the commander was too slow
and nobody threw the smokes right
and they were flanking us, ******
I must have aged decades
being in that war
long gone
were the days
of calm playing
and repetitive tasks
this now was a dynamic ask
long gone were my reflexes
long gone were my wits
all there was now to it
was the raw experience
but a trivial approximation
of the real
that allowed me to feel
what others before allowed me
to comfortably see
through the television screen
they were the long gone

let us speak of truth which is to say let us speak of lies
because truth is the story we tell ourselves in mirrors
     while adjusting the light to hide our scars
          while painting over the cracks
               while pretending we were always this way

and here's the punchline about history we reconstruct
the past like children building sandcastles knowing
the tide will come knowing the walls will fall knowing
we'll just build them again tomorrow differently because
that's what survival looks like

we say this is how it happened which means
     this is how we need it to have happened
          this is how we can bear it to have happened
               this is how we sleep at night

let us speak of patterns which is to say let us speak
of the lies we tell about lies because every story
needs a beginning middle end except nothing
ever begins or ends it just shifts like sand
     while we draw lines in it
          while we plant our flags
               while we proclaim our temporary kingdoms

and here's the diagnosis history is the scar tissue
of time healing exactly the way we convince ourselves
it should have healed all along yes exactly like that
     exactly like we planned it
          exactly like we meant it
               exactly like we needed it to be

'I think I have hemorrhoids'
I said
'oh my gawd key-koh, I have them too'
she replied
'we're hemorrhoids buddies now'
I finalized
as I also realized
we were two strangers in the metaverse
talking about *******
and from all the possible friends
this twelve year old kid
was the only one around
what a loser I must be, what a perv
even though I just wish she'd logged off
and be safe(r) in the real world
I guess I'm too old to care anymore
even if the topic is hemorrhoids
as long as the place it's coming from
is honesty and benevolence

hope waits
in empty
rooms like
light that
hasn't found
its shadow
to prove
it exists

and so it came to pass that many
have tried to date me but all have failed
for I am not a simple swipe right
but rather an ancient riddle wrapped
in a modern enigma stuffed inside
a takeout container of destiny

the prophecy speaks of one
who shall master the art
of properly loading the dishwasher
according to the scrolls of my preference
(the ancient texts are very specific
about which way the spoons should face)

dating apps bow before my profile
like pilgrims at a digital shrine
while algorithms whisper legends
of the one whose bio reads
"must be able to decode my silence
and interpret my spotify playlists"

those who came bearing red flags
found them transformed to dust
for my standards are not forged
in mortal foundries but tempered
in the fires of therapy sessions
and grandmother's disapproving sighs

and so I wait atop my tower
of unfinished books and coffee mugs
while suitors attempt to solve
the paradox of my existence
(the answer is 42 but also
none of the above, simultaneously)

Era una vez la península ibérica:
El sol no mataba,
Y el agua no faltaba;
Las emociones eran variadas
Y no solo un mismo tono.

Era una vez la península ibérica:
Región de conquistas y guerras,
Donde salieron a descubrir por los mares
Y acabaron infectando nuevos hogares,
Con religión y explotación,
Nuestros antepasados en expansión.

Puede que sea la venganza
Que ahora tengamos nosotros
Por estar en este rincón
Sufriendo más que los otros.
¿Debería huir o quedarme?
No es que sea una gran alarma,
Pero la compasión me va fallando
Mientras todos las demás almas
Vienen de algo aún peor.

do you think a rose has thorns
because things too beautiful
need protection
from everyone
who wants them?

writing is awful
its torture
its the most lonely moment
having written is great
exhilarating
the most grateful moment

and I am not the writer
and you are not the reader
we are participants
equal

and I am a narcissist, egocentric
and you are greedy and tempting
me to give so much for a small
chance to be remembered
to be enjoyed forever
and forever is a long time
so I shouldn't complain
about staying up
so late
and anybody can write
yet somehow it's my turn
tonight

waiting room thoughts branch like veins!

    future divides:
        before treatment;
            during treatment!
                after treatment?
            during treatment!
                before treatment;
    present loops back...

cells multiply (like fears) in darkness:
    each division a new timeline|
        each moment splits into maybe~
            and what-if!
                and please.

time curves through the white room:
    yesterday's blood count;
        tomorrow's possibilities~
            today's needle!
                memory fires: age seven,
                    first bee sting;
                        now thirty-three,
                            first infusion?

thoughts spiral into patterns:
    statistics become prayers!
        prayers become bargains;
            bargains become acceptance:
                acceptance becomes hope~

mother's hand on shoulder transmits:
    courage through skin!
        fear through bones;
            love through time...
                strength through blood~

waiting room clock ticks sideways:
    past and future collide|
        in this sterile now!
            where moments branch
                like veins
                    like choices
                        like cells
                            like hope~

Mi deseo de inmortalidad
es un paseo de casualidad.
Sólo, camino hasta el vacío;
Nadie vino a parar el travesío.
Llegué al final sin nada para llevar,
una pérdida mortal después de tanto trabajar.

my inner rebel keeps getting
passive-aggressive emails from HR
about proper thought etiquette
and unauthorized emotional overtime

tried to have an original thought once
but my brain's quality control
sent it back with red markup
and seventeen required signatures

guilt installed itself as malware
in my psychological operating system
now even my daydreams come with
trigger warnings and safety waivers

society handed me a script
for my own internal monologue
(apparently my stream of consciousness
needed better production values)

my feral thoughts wear business casual
and file their tax returns on time
while my civilized side howls at the moon
through a professionally crafted powerpoint

freedom called but I had to decline
too busy alphabetizing my anxieties
and scheduling my spontaneity
for next quarter's performance review

seventeen and stupid
in class dreaming of recess
writing notes to each other
back and forth
like an analog MSN messenger
thinking this would last forever
what a joke

now I'm here
nineteen years later
still checking your Facebook
like some kind of forensic investigator
of happiness
trying to figure out where the body is buried

I just want to be rich and *******
the same girl forever
but instead I'm here
writing bad poetry
drinking warm beer
while you're out there
living your best life
married
or whatever

remember how we used to
share earbuds in Portuguese class?
now I can't even listen
to those songs anymore
(the outfield - your love)
(the kooks - naive)
(vanessa & ben - boa sorte)
without feeling like
I'm being stabbed
by a mechanical pencil

funny how memory works
like that
like a tooth that won't stop
aching
even after
it's been pulled out

I saw
how much
that small
moment meant
to you—
your eyes
bright with
the kind of
hope
I outgrew
but still
remember

Awareness can be such a...
Itch.
Too painful, I wish I could
Switch
To before, when I felt
Rich
Inside. But then came the
Glitch,
Which has left me in a
Ditch
Of my own making.

Oh, why do I
Concern
With causes which
Burn
Me, when I cannot
Turn
Away, only despair and
Learn
More as they leave me to
Yearn
For the times before?

Even being aware of
This
Helps not solve it.
Please,
Show me how I can
Kiss
Content once more, I
Miss
That feeling I once held,
Bliss
Outside this fiery hell.

my comfort zone filed for divorce
said I was getting too comfortable
(ironic, but also fair
considering I built a blanket fort in there)

tried to evolve yesterday
but my final form kept glitching
now I'm stuck somewhere between
a butterfly and a tax accountant

your desire
to remain as you are
is what ultimately limits you
(he typed, while actively refusing
to learn how microwaves work)

change knocked on my door
wearing a door-to-door salesman costume
but jokes on them
I've been living in my ceiling for months

turns out personal growth
is just juicy peer pressure
from your future self
who already knows all your passwords

my potential called
it wants its metaphors back
but I told it I'm currently busy
being professionally mediocre

Strands of keratin brush the brass
of a seat in the morning bus.
A metal voyage of burning fire,
releasing ancient sun prior.
Pheromones travel the air,
reaching my sense of smell bare,
starting a chain reaction inside.
Now there is nowhere to hide.
Photons from the star hit the keratin,
bouncing to my retina I see a heroine;
The golden color signalling my brain
how hopeless, how vain,
any interaction is to attain.

The supermarket's automatic doors
(do not)
slide open at 2 AM
for no one in particular.

I count empty shopping carts:
one for each failed first date,
one for each unanswered text,
seventeen in total since October.

The night manager
(which does not exist)
counts bottles,
writes numbers in columns
that mean nothing to anyone
except the corporate office
where everything reduces
to profit and loss.

Some nights I drive past your house
accidentally on purpose,
counting bicycles in the driveway,
while my own storage
holds only winter tires
and questions about statute
of limitations on guilt.

The cashier's monitor
(it's off)
blinks error codes in red.
I pretend to understand
the mathematics of fair trade:
your happiness for mine,
plus interest accumulated
over five years of insomnia.

left my
tea
cooling on
the balcony
watching it
learn the
temperature
of giving
up

Las olas en el mar
Disfrazan los nervios
De los dos que caminan
Hacia un nuevo lugar.

Será otra decepción,
Un bostezo al cristal?
O un comienzo caliente
Para siempre recordar?

Te miro desde la toalla
Mientras entras en el agua;
Sonríes de vuelta, tal vez
Escondiendo un secreto,
O más probable sin saber
Lo que estoy sintiendo.

Una mezcla de futuros,
Un entrelace de visiones,
Todo ofuscado,
Todo confusiones.
Y entre todo, unas ganas
Que hierven, que crecen,
Que matarían a uno cualquiera
Excepto a mí, que ahora quiero
Quedarme vivo para un día
Poder cogerte de la mano
En ese nuevo lugar
Donde hemos llegado.

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.

Life is a movie
A novel of dramas & pleasures.
It’s the action surrounding
the whispers of those non-returning
A veil that covers everything,
The waking of those still suffering

There is no time for everything
Neither for anything
The movie continues without stopping
With the illusion you can be playing it

We are the bubble that emerges from the sea
Trying to float above
The sea is the everything, above is the vacuum
And the bubble falls again
When we are going to die
But there is nothing to fear
We are just returning
Without losing nothing
To the beginning.

morning and I make your coffee twice today once
from that hollow space where I need you to need
me where my hands shake with the weight of
tomorrow's promises where every clink of spoon
against cup sounds like warning bells sounds like
run sounds like hide but later after the sky
broke open after I remembered how to breathe
after finding that quiet place beneath my ribs
I make it again same beans same water same
motion but now watch how the steam rises like
prayer like possibility like the way light
bends through windows and I'm no longer
trying to save us with caffeine and careful
measurements no longer trying to fill the
spaces between words with sugar and heat now
it's just this just my hands moving through
morning air like birds through summer sky like
thoughts through silence like love through time
and maybe this is what they mean when they
say it's not what you do but where it comes
from where it comes from where it comes from
this place of open hands this place of let go
this place of already enough already whole
already here already here already here

and throughout Liminality,
a clear emergence:
the space inside transition
that once was uncertainty
could instead be
exploration and freedom;
less control and more agency
as paradoxical as it feels,
in this wild state
in which evolutionary conditions
struggle to adapt
to such frantic
realism

loneliness
speaks in
a language
we always
understand
but pretend
needs
translation

watching them shop for forever in 30-minute installments
I think about thinking about time while time thinks about me
my father's hands shake when he checks his retirement account
the space between heartbeats contains infinite emptiness
old voicemails collect dust in digital drawers
youth dissolves            in morning coffee            while tomorrow                 compresses
& I watch him calculate the years like loose change
infinity fits in his palm, smaller than he remembers

listen Sam I know you mean well
but I can't handle being your friendly
healthcare-system-vigilante lookalike
(my skincare routine isn't bulletproof)

you're out here telling people I look like
the guy who 360-no-scoped big pharma
in broad daylight with a folder of
denied insurance claims as his calling card

I already have to wear a fake wedding ring
to keep the baristas from writing
their social security numbers
on my coffee cups

now I've got women sliding into my DMs
with their medical bills and ski masks
asking if I want to "hypothetically" discuss
the immediate future of United Healthcare

my therapist says I'm not responsible
for looking like a revolutionary heartthrob
but she also winked and asked if I had plans
this friday at the Cigna headquarters

ps: stop telling people I have an alibi
pps: I was actually making sourdough bread
ppps: the security cameras can prove it
(but please don't check them, my technique is embarrassing)

Eles olham para mim.
Elas também.
Já tenho de andar agasalhado
pelo frio da manhã.
As nuvens escondem o sol.
A luz, cinzenta e azul,
atravessa todo o campo de visão.

As caras, sem expressão
que, ou me julgam,
ou eu projecto tal intenção,
voltam a olhar para baixo,
para a fonte de informação social,
trazida pelas luzes vermelhas, verdes, e azuis
Onde os seus polegares vão deslizando
aborrecidamente.

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

the human dream
balancing on the thin thread
of moloch atomic fire
fueled by the scarcity of evolution
it just couldn't have been
any other way
for the gift of progress
forged from competition
will never rest
whichever direction
it cascades.
No bravery or caution
or planning and intelligence
can control such force
unleashed by the very binding
of this universe
and to know this or not
makes absolutely no difference
or sense at all
and all the sacrifices made
and all the things lost and gained
to disappear instantly
with everyone
and no one in particular
to blame.

I wake up late, but still before lunch
the mailbox is empty
*******-
usually the postman comes around this time
and so I wait
I come back for lunch break
still empty
I don't know what hurts the most;
peeking through the slit
or opening it straight away
another day gone
another waiting
I need the mail, the cheap chinese crap
the midnight impulse buys
that colorful japanese cardboard crack
I am on my knees
and I **** the almighty god of consumerism
wishing that at least everyday
could be a little more like christmas
treating myself as if I was my woman
spoiling me further
than I would ever do any unborn child
the next day; something at last
this will do nicely along my collection
of nice to haves and just in cases
I don't want to look outside
and see tomorrow burning
the mailbox'll keep me busy
from unnecessary impossible
yearnings

It's all a shot in the dark
Either you make it, or become a civilized 9-to-fiver
Now the nine-to-5er is the shot in the dark
But that doesn't seem to be making us
want it any less
Marriage and children?
Be content with a situationship and a dog
And pity those that only have **** and plants
But pity more
those that don't even have those
Except, perhaps, it's for the best
It's all for the best

Siento la orilla del mar
Entre mis dedos, y la arena
Revuelta que me hace pensar
En mis miedos, que los otros dedos
Aún no sienten en esta playa
Tan calma y serena.

Hace mucho que buscaba
Una distracción terrenal, el deseo
Ese, de olvidar lo que viniera
Y recordar lo que pudiera
Confortar un cualquiera,
Pero especialmente éste
Que aún seguía más allá de la frontera
De su mente.
Logro un instante,
Un segundo apenas,
Ya bastante para lo que imaginaba
Que sería una pérdida tremenda
De tiempo y energía,
Pero no tan grande talvez
Como la de nuestras vidas.

maybe
gods laugh
watching
us build
walls
around
hearts
that were
meant to
break
anyway

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

I have a way with the ladies they say but the ladies are actually origami cranes folding themselves into question marks whenever I enter a room while the ceiling fan spins detective novels into the air and I'm pretty sure my coffee mug is judging me for being the kind of person who thinks he has a way with the ladies which is really just another way of saying I collect shadows in mason jars and pretend they're meaningful conversations the truth is the ladies have a way with reality that I'll never understand because they exist in dimensions where my noir fantasy dissolves like sugar cubes in rain and maybe that's the point maybe I'm just a metaphor having an existential crisis in a poem that thinks it's cleverer than it actually is while somewhere a real detective is solving real mysteries but here I am collecting punctuation marks like alibis