the slow closing of a heavy glass door
the humming of the air conditioner
the distant banging of construction work
the occasional hurried or lazy steps
just outside
on the sidewalk made of cobblestones
a child's voice mildly annoyed
tires on the road
and a gentle honk
diffused chatter melting in the background
the exact anxious business chatter of an interior design store
the frequencies I don't hear anymore
from flickering lights
rustling clothes
breathing in and out of noses
all of this in an instant
a moment
in a late morning
of the childhood neighborhood
as they discuss the furniture for the new home
away from the memory, from the past,
filled with a promise
hoping this time it will
last.

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'

"keeeey-koh"
said an excited high pitched voice
and then came the bouncy
floppy ears
and the flowy hair
dip-dyed.
from the chaos of the
optimized box
to the quiet YTS
you're too young...
you shouldn't be there
this is full of monsters
it's better to be lonely
than with them
I wish your parents were better
as I wish for mine
I wish you grew up in my time
Mostly, I wish you make it out
alive
it's okay, expected even
to get very hurt
but it only takes one moment
to end it all
forever
the finality contrasting highly
with the casual presentation of this
universe (metaverse)
a shock shaking to the core
a lesson learned heavily
that cliché of moderation
could end up saving your
life
I'm no angel and cannot look over
forever
I cannot even teach everything needed
for there is no time
and you wouldn't listen
just as I didn't
before my own
prime

I gotta be honest with you folks
I am not looking forward to the start
of this glorious new year
of our mythical lord
of twenty twenty five
I have an existential weariness
that has been slowly grinding me
and my batteries are drained
and I keep forgetting their names
and I don't want any more syringes
things going wrong
precautions within cautions within
causes
and did you know I only had a
zero point zero one two per cent
chance of getting in this mess
that's one in every eight thousand
and three hundred men
Christ, a man this lucky
oughta be playing the lottery
yet the only ticket I want
is getting out of this ride
as soon as possible
and if I can help it
relatively unscathed
except for the scars and memories
from this very strange place.

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.

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

He died in ninety four
but these poems are from ninety two
he had two years left
but didn't know it
I was two years old
and didn't know him too
sixty six years of difference
now I'm thirty four
I feel like I have two years left
or even less
two years ago I read him less
while I traveled europe
careless
and a single cell
a seed of death
began to spread
and if I had done nothing
I too would only have
two years left
what a difference
two years can make
I'm almost afraid
of the next two
but how peaceful he looks
on that garden tomb
in this internet picture
on this monday afternoon