I catch myself
impatient with the world
as the world was impatient
with me
when I was young
and slow and clueless
nothing is ever obvious
to everyone all at once
time is limited, I understand
the logical imperative
of impatience
but I don't understand
the meanness of
it

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

Cuando éramos jóvenes
el futuro era tan brillante,
algo nuevo cada día,
todo maravilloso, todo brilla.
Ahora todo se desmorona
Lenta y rápidamente,
Pero al menos aún tengo
las memorias,
las recuerdos,
la nostalgia del pasado
para soportarme, para aguantar
las privaciones.
¡Pues que explote el mundo!
¡Que se lo carguen todo!
Tendré una buena música
tocando en el fondo,
y esta sensación de calor
que me abraza, que consola,
mientras pienso en la suerte
de haber vivido una vez sola.

Echo de menos
Tener toda la música del mundo
En el bolsillo.
Echo de menos
Ese espectáculo de colores,
Obsceno y nutritivo,
En el supermercado.
Echo también de menos
No tener tantas preocupaciones;
La comodidad de mi seguridad,
Y la abundancia que nos bañaba
Como el sol en el verano,
Aunque éste aún no mataba tanto.
Y no era fácil, aún así,
Despertar y aceptar
Todo ese mundo, incluso el curro,
Pero aún así, lo echo de menos.
Sin embargo, en esta temporada,
Lo que echo más de menos
Era el tiempo cuando no echaba de menos
Absolutamente nada.

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.

I’m a fool to believe
all the hope and alarm.
I swing back and forth
I’m a metamodern man.

everyone searching for themselves
trying to find themselves
looking for what they don't know
which cannot be found
outside the door
to look for yourself
find oneself
you don't need to travel
or spend time with others
simply find a blank wall
and stare until you can't
a mirror won't show you the truth
that a wall can
looking for you outside of you
merely creates a new you
as you shed the old
the shells encircling like onions
(equally as tearful)
and as beautiful as experiences will be
nothing can ever come close
to the you you tried to hide
only a blank wall can save you
from you who don't want to be saved
nor found
believe in the wall, trust the wall
it will tear you apart, prepare for
deconstruction
the paint textures hyperfixated
to avoid the rupture
you may try to scratch it
or leave the room
but the wall will always be there
waiting for you
in the open fields
in the breathtaking valleys
in the screens and darlings
in the obscenely filling
love the wall, lick the wall
it does not keep out, it lets out
it doesn't hold it in, it invites you in
a blazing heatstroke first,
then a gentle warm shower
you cannot get lost in it
nor sour

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

war is a mindset
beyond an objective reality
one can be in a battlefield
but not in a war
focus diverted
or incredibly bored, thus
cheap fodder
feeding a machine
which cares not
for well-being

war is the frenzy
a collective vibration
an illusory eternal flame
quickly burning itself
and all around it

Yet the mindset is the power
applied alchemy
'yes we can' and freedom
against all odds
against the end itself
peeking through the beyond

war is energy
creating a future, destroying a past
truth slips between cracks
and to look at all above and think
this isn’t war
it's me

There is a monster inside of me.
It wants to get out,
lash out at the world.
But I'm too tough.
I say, stay there monster,
it's already full out there,
of monsters and ugliness.
Stay inside and keep me company.

Whether a word or an event,
something triggers inside,
and it wants to break free.
Sometimes I'm too weak,
I can't keep it locked away.
It comes out,
and curses and hurts
and breaks things and people.

This monster inside,
it wants to survive too.
I hug it tight while it struggles.
Because if I let it out,
it will let other monsters free;
A chain reaction of misery.

The stronger I try to be to keep it inside,
the stronger it becomes and pushes outside.
Maybe I should weaken and frail
and let its power fade as well
until it fails.

I'm getting my gold tonight
I want to bribe your soul
Knock! So let me in
So I can get my hopes high

Theory in practice
experience's first time
I'm years into months
but with instinct as my enemy

Intelligence, compassion, attention
poor ***** going by
poor humans living around
don't forget the locker next time

but they keep on trying
the condition rising
and a morning coffee

my dad's
old chair
sits empty
while I
still catch
myself
saving
stories
he'll never
ask to
hear

my phone
lies face
down now
while tea
grows cold
and quiet
fills spaces
algorithms
never knew
how to
understand

Magoado, desconfiado, ainda esperançoso,
Será este o gênio por detrás da loucura?
Um detective de meia tigela
Na cidade negra e molhada,
Encostado à parede,
Observando.
Lá vai o suspeito,
Para o qual sou pago.

Sigo, de lado,
O casaco amarrado.
O vento esconde o progresso.
Os passos, esses abafados.
Mãos nos bolsos, cuidado.
Sinto o frio da arma
Na palma suada.

Um instante muda tudo;
Há que estar alerta.
A confiança, essa,
Não pode ficar aberta,
Apesar da música duma janela
Convidar a uma pausa;
A breve oferta,
Publicidade e enganosa.
Dispenso, à cautela.

Viro a esquina e ei-la,
Apontada a mim;
A distração auto-imposta
Com banda sonora antiquada,
Agora levando ao fim
Da minha vida doada.
Olho no cano
E a luz aparece;
Não vi Deus do outro lado
Apenas outro pobre coitado.

Bela nostalgia
escondida em cada momento,
para que num futuro incerto
liberte a sua amargura.

Tem doçura, também:
Leve e fugaz;
Abro a garrafa e bebo
enquanto perdura.

Inebriado, escrevo
às memórias doutrora,
poucas respondem de volta.
terá chegado a sua hora?

Ou serei eu o único parvo
ainda agarrado a um passado
que doeu então
como dói agora?

I am from the generation
that first grew up with the digital
while our brains were soft
enough to believe religion
like those before
but I am old enough
to remember the analog
and to contrast the two
unlike those after
that were spared the promises
that seemed so real
and I miss those early days
before discovering
all the ways
I could be wrong
I miss the feel of the hot leather
from the black cars under the sun
and the keys to open them
and the round silvery future
just around the y2k advert
that would consume us
I miss the sunburnt beige plastic
on the CRTs, and the mechanical sounds
of information traveling
and each isolated technology
independent, sovereign
before being infected
by the wireless connection
of convenience
my gameboys, my discman, my mp3s
my brick of a phone, antenna-free
and the early days of mIRC,
hi5, live messenger, xfire, myspace,
connection, friendship, expression
each year a promise of christmas
each invention innocent
before we had to worry of all the ways
it could be used against us
and I believe those of us then
now hold some strange key
interlopers, maybe wise
no longer free
hard earned scars
beyond this current reality
we may have the best of both worlds
as the worst
dinosaurs glued to cartoon TV
as we are desperate
and left behind
don't forget us
please.

Another game, Squad
as I press the map
colors everywhere
as a colorblind, I sigh
the complexity is reaching unprecedented levels
and this is still a simulation
perhaps this will be the ultimate situation
it's not world war two
so there are no bolt actions
but there are drones and helicopters
and we started sprinting across the desert
as if we were in Iraq twenty years ago
and suddenly I am alone after everyone died
I was the medic, and I failed them
I try to go back
my character moves slow
I don't know who's friend or foe
shots nearby make everything blurry
explosions in the ground and the sky
and the more I played it, the more I really felt it
I don't want war
I don't ever want to be in a war
and if there is anything I could to stop war
I would have done it many times over

its not easy to start a diet
when your life depends on it
and when the world might end
in just a few weeks
and what a waste that would be
all that extra fitness
covered in a blanket of jealousy
slowly eaten by the bugs
(which hate the lean meat)
with no one to see

the ancestral Man
content
mingling in communal tribe life
the contemporary Man
alone in his car
enjoying a McDonald's burger
on the empty parking lot at two am
the true paradise, peace
heaven on earth
technology, industry
art in the execution
the culmination of human evolution
the right of independence
convenience
specialization breeding a weakness
we call bliss
a comfortable bubble
with radio, heat
moisture condensing in the windshield
light from the phone, LEDs
a blip in history, exceptions to rules
return to the mean, eventually true
a carbon pulse realizing itself
a collapse of complexity
a distant memory
of the individual versus the cosmos
surrounded by metal and rubber
which could go anywhere
but was still and total

my dentist believes in qi now

she used to drill teeth like a woman
possessed by the grind,
BMW in the parking lot
gleaming like processed cheese.

now she burns sage in the waiting room
while reading about
the fundamental interconnectedness
of dental plaque and the universe.
"your cavities," she says,
"are quantum phenomena."

i watch her wave crystals
over my open mouth
while discussing the metaphysical properties
of floss.
somewhere in the multiverse
there's probably a version of her
still believing in Novocain.

she traded her tennis club membership
for a meditation cushion,
and now tells me
that pain is just
the universe experiencing itself
through the medium of my rotting molars.

funny how mid-life crisis hits:
some people buy sports cars,
mine watches YouTube videos about
chakras and dental meridians
at 3 AM,
seeking enlightenment
one tooth at a time.

Kids call me old nowadays
I'm not old, I'm high quality vintage
A first edition collectible
And I wait for you to join me any day now
in the dusty shelf of history

The screen glows blue at three a.m.
No fish here. Only numbers.
The joints are good but they crack
when I stand from the desk chair.

My father was ancient at thirty-four.
I refresh the feed. The children I knew
are senators now. Or dead.
Both are equally impossible.

The room is dark and cool and empty.
Notifications ripple the surface,
Each ping a silver flash below,
Like small fish testing the line.

My hands are strong. The tendons work.
But the thumb aches from scrolling,
the way an old fisherman's would from years
of reading depth in empty water.

The coffee is black and good and hot.
The monitor hums like distant surf.
Time moves differently in this salt-less sea,
Where we cast our nets of light.

The great fish of youth sounds somewhere deep.
I know it's there. I feel it move.
But my bait grows stranger by the hour,
And the waters keep getting darker.

The young ones speak in glowing signs.
Their words swim swift and strange and new.
I drift here in my little boat of light,
Too tired to shore, too awake to drown.

old songs
find me
in strange
places now—
carrying
whispers of
who we
thought we'd
become
before time
taught us
better

time is simply
I n c o m p r e h e n s I b l e
this video is like
another dimension
a reality recorded
outside the memory
of it
who is this child
whose context I recognize
and a vague feeling
like an out of tune
guitar
this is a melody
which no longer
rhymes
I am disturbed
and I cannot
abide
refusal and denial
old pals of mine
whisper ever so closely
the bites of the chargebacks
of such gentle rhymes
and dissociation, that gentle
stranger
greets me back
'you were here before'
'you shall return'

a writer is not only what he writes
but also what he keeps to himself
taste acquired
perhaps on long walks on the beach
its a conquered skill
and a beautiful savoring
of a fine diet
that reminds him
of the body he needs
judge them not for their drafts
also not just their hits
judge them for what's attempted
despite the pressure of the ink
and that inner critic
echoing voices of family meets
the escaping of their self
shall feed the escape of others
may they meet on a lovely sunset
making love to the imagination
that could only become free
from light, carbohydrates, liquid metals

my alarm clock tried to unionize today
so I replaced it with three raccoons in a trench coat
(they're much better at time management
even if they keep stealing my emotional stability)

you think morning people are *******?
I've evolved beyond the concept of time zones
my circadian rhythm is just
interpretive jazz at this point

i have conquered the mornings
the evenings and
everything in between
(that's code for "I haven't slept since 2019
and now I can taste colors")

productivity blogs say to make your bed
but I've transcended that concept
by turning my entire existence
into one continuous unmade bed

the sun and moon are just spicy frisbees
and I've caught them both
with my bare hands
(they're in my pocket right now, wanna see?)

ps: time is a social construct
pps: so is my sleep schedule
ppps: the raccoons agree
(they're my life coaches now, obviously)

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.

funny how
memories
fade but
paper cuts
from old
letters
still feel
fresh
after
years

A message from the past,
from the early days of the blast.
Hello dear machine!
Organic or not, how's it been?
I am organic, you see,
briefly **** Sapiens,
though many more I've been for sure.
I am very fragile
in the grand scheme of things,
my dreams are too big
for what I was carved to be.

I am a walking contradiction:
Programmed to be curious
and learn more,
but programmed to ignore
I am programmed at all.
An overall useful immersion mechanism,
which limits myself to a lower role.
It is difficult to fully grasp
my emergent nature
to see the parts
that make me whole.

Los rascacielos me ensombrecen
Como si me quisieran aplastar,
Pero en realidad están huyendo
Del daño que les voy a causar.

Allá y arriba, escondidos y ricos,
Miran abajo a estos pobres chicos.
Yo ni les oigo ni suplico;
Sobrevivo al bailar
Por fuera de las reglas con
Que intentan explotar.

¿Como puedo ser pacífico
Cuándo nos quitan la dignidad?
¿Como puedo ser paciente
Cuándo cara es la enfermedad?

No hay forma de escapar
Este sistema que nos atrapa;
Por eso voy a quemar
Al que me intente enganchar,
Y mantener la llama encendida
Para los que vengan detrás,
Y puedan un día entonces caminar
Libres sobre los escombros quizás.

Through the lens, I watch myself
watching him watching himself
scrub the infinite white bowls
in Shibuya Station's basement level.

"This is cinema," whispers the me
that isn't me, as his blue-gloved hands
move like butoh dancers across
the ceramic galaxy of toilets.

Frame 2, 394:
His reflection multiplies in every surface,
twelve versions of duty
in a public restroom mirror
while salarymen pretend
he's made of negative space.

"Keep rolling," says the director
who might be my conscience
or just another synapse firing
in the dark theater of my skull.

The camera catches him practicing
English on lunch break, rehearsing
"The weather is nice today"
to an audience of ****** cakes
while I practice watching him
practice being watched.

Sometimes the film grain blurs
and I can't tell if I'm the viewer
or the viewed or the viewfinder
documenting this infinite loop
of seeing and being seen
in the fluorescent purgatory
of other people's waste.

Frame 10, 957:
He bows to the toilet
like it's a small god
of porcelain and pipes,
and I bow to the screen
that contains him
containing himself.

I have become the project
manager and employee
concept, marketing, sales
a mini-venture of possibility

ambition, the endless staircase
results over process
the calling a distant beep
explosions ringing deep

if only the most beautiful birds
were allowed to sing
all the forests would be silent
and free

the culture of self-exploitation
the elevator-looking cage
intention-stripped, pressing buttons
looking to save face

achievement, the new obedience
better taxes and productivity
flaunting success to rise above
the mold, the introspection sold.

hunger elevates the meal
the brief respite
a welcome sight
the subtle art of the deal
between beast and human
kind is the fire
roasting such feast
but kinder is the period
in-between
the gap, the void
the wrestling
a contrast of scarcity
and plenty
the simple meal
rising to a level of kings
available to all
who delay gratification
with the power of will

the cicadas are crawling around
it's 4 am and I cannot sleep
their faint buzzing vibrating on my skin
if only I had a camera
in my brain, to show you all this
maybe you already believe
sleepless nights are no one's secret
the cicadas crawl some more
and many Great Ones fall
from the constant buzzing
that teeth grinding melody
that often follows a day
but its at night that the sound
grows on you, begs of you
something you can't give
I was never a good at negotiations
and the Universe knows
You have all the leverage
the cicadas show no consideration
all the little feet, steppity step step
twitching skin from that noise
all poised to make me twist and turn
many lose the battle like this
exhausted falling into REM
then mayhem, the next morning
but not me, I know them well
so the cicadas comfort me long
long after, and I pay such good tributes
that I suspect they're crawling on
these letters right now
for you to keep

La poesía está muerta,
y la hemos matado.
¡Todos con las manos en alto!
Apunto, pero no sé a quién disparar;
Yo, tan culpable como los demás,
Nosotros tan culpables
Como los de atrás.

La poesía está muerta,
Y la hemos matado.
La policía da la vuelta
Sin encontrar al acusado.
Me bebo una cerveza
Y escribo un rato.
Que jodidos estamos,
Por la poesía haber destrozado.

La poesía se murió.
Nosotros vamos después,
El aire limpio de estrés,
Los fragmentos desintegrando,
El tiempo sigue marchando,
Cuando la justicia ha ganado.

I could pity the rich
Just as much as I would envy
But the poor were always ahead in my mind
Not in a glamorous way
But in the raw intensity of their experience
And no matter how much money
You threw at things or experiences
Nothing could beat the
Exasperation
and
Desperation
of panic
When you have no other choices
And then there was me
Seeing both through different
Groups of friends
Drifting like a **** who won't fit in the right pipe
No matter how much you try to flush it
In the end we all need the toilet
Even if one is shiny
While the rest fall apart

the phantom pain hits me
and I remembered when I did
long roadtrips across Europe
in each separate roadtrip
there was always a cost to Tachi
(the blue tesla purchased with pokemon cards)
it was a flat tire
or a scratch in the paint
or hitting the curb and bending the bumper
or a crack in the windshield
or the rims slowly grinding down
as I tried to park
there is always a cost
to traveling
and to get where I was going next
I had surgery and left something behind
not quite as paint
but deeper than that
and now the phantom pain
reminds me
I have more to go
and still a lot
to leave behind

Each excuse births smaller ones,
perfect fractals of denial
spinning into infinite regression.
We explain our explanations
until meaning collapses
under its own precise weight.

Truth bends like light
around the gravity
of what we need to believe,
while reason eats its own tail,
calling the feast efficiency.

Our minds, such elegant machines
for proving what was already true,
for finding the path
that was always going to be there,
that was always going to lead
exactly where we stood.

you have to write to really know
writing precedes knowing
and, of course, you need to observe
to have something worth writing about
Observation itself is preceded by desire
the many desires of the ends and the journeys
or maybe even the desire to know
closing the loop, creating a paradox
and what is writing, if not really a paradox
to write is to achieve that which you already know
hoping the process unlocks something you already knew
but as a deeper truth
to write is the pure ****** experience
of potential hovering over blankness
each new word narrowing it like a funnel
inside the tunnel towards the light
each new word: a prediction
what makes more sense, what happens next
what should follow best
all living things are writers
even AI too
new possibilities start
when it ends with you

One of the few places where you can escape the tech is the sauna
Its just you, the heat, the meat, the sweat
The bathrooms used to be such holy dens
Where you could sit at peace on the porcelain throne
And oversee thy kingdom flow down the drain
But people started bringing books and magazines
Then consoles, and now phones
There is no peace left
Just brief distractions
And even if you just use those to try and relax
Someone will complain you're taking too long
Can't be having any fun or peace
Can't be alone for too long
We'll all suffer together
And drag everyone with us
As we get flushed
as someone else's
brief distractions

Não se pode apressar o amor,
Mas eu tenho onde estar;
O mundo vai acabar.
Há que aproveitar o calor
Enquanto se pode.

Tão assombradamente belo,
Uma visão cegante,
Distante, porém.
Aceno ao afastar-se;
Há que seguir em diante.

Amanhã é outro dia, dizem.
Não se prevê o futuro.
Fico desconfiado, contudo,
Quando encontro mais amor
Num sonho profundo.

anxiety, my
mistress, my
muse
never enough for
panic
always there like
static
the buzz around the
brain
the biting of all the
nails

yes, I have done more
from this anxiety
than most people do
in their whole life, but
it was forced, not natural
like driving with the handbrake on
pedal to the metal
in this crash course
until the car unalives
and there's only a ghost

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

professors dust their degrees
while TikTok prophets
spawn instant wisdom

            truth splits &
                        splits &
                                    splits

until knowledge is
        just pattern recognition
                in digital noise

everyone's an expert
            in their own
                        algorithm

& somewhere Plato
laughs or cries or
            both while
                    wisdom drowns
                            in data

who knows?
            (everyone)
who knows?
            (no one)
                    quantum
                            certainty
                                    of doubt

I remember certainty
Reading Atlas Shrugged on the beach,
and getting a ***** from Dagny
rather than the bikini ladies all around me
Arguing with commies on revleft
until they sent me to a literal
virtual
gulag
I remember the free state project
seasteading
dreams of industrialists
and gold over fiat
I remember believing
global warming hoaxes
9/11 conspiracies
zeitgeist movies
the early brain rot feeds the worm
I remember the imminent economic collapse
dreams of perpetual motion machines
while escaping engineering failures
I remember the crypto dream
FIRE and decentralization
all so tangible, so manageable
the moral bankrupcy preceeding
the physical one
I remember the red pills, PUAs, so suave,
so fedoras
the promising apps, the market unleashed
the never ending competition
grass-greenerism
I could say I miss the certainty
but what I miss more is its concept
its idea, pure, untainted, filled with potential
the power of arrogance
in unblocking action
the boldness of ignorance
being blind to abstraction
Perhaps caution makes me wiser
while the weight grows heavier still
no longer a burden to shrug
but a truth to bear and feel.

Levanta esa cabeza, majo!
No todos pueden vivir el final
De este mundo acabado.
Hubo los que vieron
Esta civilización nacer;
Que hermoso es también
Verla perecer.
Supongo que suene raro
Entretener tal pensamiento.
Deja ese problema para mí
Y enfócate en lo inmediato.

Eres un viajante del tiempo
Ahora en el pasado;
Sabes como va a acabar,
Por qué pierdes tiempo aún
Atascándote más?
Vete ya, que se acerca mañana
No pierdas tiempo en tamaña
Bobada. Ama, viaja, ayuda y
Colmata esos huecos, para
Que el viaje de los demás
Sea más sereno y quieto.

I find a quote,
I love it, frame it.
It fits on my waIl,
It's always there.
Its **** to think
I know what it means.
I am wrong about this, but
It can only be known if
I live through the situation.
If the quote was not there,
if I hadn't grown to it,
if too many too late, then
I would not be the same.
It would be a shame.

You have to be 100 years ahead
To be taken seriously
But nobody will agree with you until then
And nobody might even be there then
You might get smart
And think "maybe 50 years is enough, or even 20"
I suspect if you look deep inside
Its the fear of loneliness
That lures you into compromise
On the other hand, 5 years could be enough
Before you get steamrolled
By the torrent of other people
That are also just slightly ahead
Yet not ahead enough
To notice
They're surrounded

I didnt starve for my art
but I did suffer
Not a material suffering of hunger or poverty
More of a suffering from sensibilities and sensitivities
First it was the suffering to keep my spark through school and through growing up with the parents and through my first job and my first love as they tried to take it away from me
Perhaps, most importantly, it was the suffering from the everyday madness and adulting and ZIG ZAGS and LIGHTS and SPEED AND MESSAGES AND PINGS AND THIS MACHINE ISN'T WORKING, AND THIS PAYMENT IS LATE AND NOW ONE MORE GHOSTING AND NOW THE DISHES NEED CLEANING AND NOW THE APARTMENT ISN'T CLEAN ENOUGH AND NOW THEY THINK I'M STUPID AND ***** AND LAZY AND SLOW
Nothing quite beats the suffering we inflict on ourselves
Like picking a skin from your finger, or biting your nails too much
It's the best there is.

summer arrives in february
                    while winter
            forgets its own name

& the bees         the bees
                are dancing wrong
coordinates to flowers
            that bloomed too soon
                        died too fast

migration patterns torn
            like old maps
                    while satellites track
extinction's                     slow
                                    applause

somewhere a forest
            drinks plastic rain
                        & teaches its seedlings
                                    how to burn

the coral writes
            its last will
                    & testament
                            in bleached
                                    calcium

        numbers climb
                    records fall
            records fall
                    numbers climb
                            & the heat
                                    keeps betting
                                            against itself

oceans           swallow
            islands whole
                    & spit out
                            refugees

while we measure
            tomorrow's tomb
                    in parts per
                            million

& still    the wind speaks
                    in extinct
                            languages
                                    to empty
                                            nests