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

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.

Today I leveraged my core competencies
by successfully utilizing the office microwave
without burning my lunch
(#grateful #blessed #thoughtleader)

My strategic pivot from
desk-facing-wall to desk-facing-window
has resulted in a 47% increase
in pretending to be productive
while watching pigeons mate.

Excited to announce
that my morning anxiety attack
has been optimized
for maximum efficiency:
now hyperventilating
in only 2.3 minutes
(a personal best).

Thrilled to share that my
"crying in bathroom stall" initiative
has attracted key stakeholders
from Accounting and HR,
creating synergistic opportunities
for collaborative breakdown sessions.

Looking forward to disrupting
the traditional paradigm
of actually doing work
by innovative implementation
of staring at spreadsheets
while thinking about death.

#OpenToOpportunities #HumbledAndHonored
#ThrivingThroughChaos #AlwaysGrinding
#ThoughtLeadershipIsMyPassion

Posted 1h ago

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

Day one: white walls
white mask
white light
white noise
in my head

My phone glows until my eyes hurt
then doesn't glow at all
anymore
at all.

tap
tap
tap-tap
on the radiator pipe
on the window frame
on my teeth

People grow from corners
like mold
like dreams
like friends
They dance without feet
They speak without sound
They fade by morning

thump
THUMP
THUMP-THUMP
on the desk
on the chair
on my chest

Through the wall
a fist pounds back:
"STOP!"
"STOP!"
"please
stop."

But then:
tap
tap-tap
comes the answer
comes the echo
comes the dance

Two strangers
in separate cells
finding rhythm
in white noise
in white light
in white walls

I watch puddles form
in parking lot craters,
count the ripples
from each raindrop's fall

my reflection fragments
into twenty versions
of the same tired face
attempting miracles

someone once said
walking on water
wasn't built in a day
like it was supposed to help

I keep trying anyway
watching my feet sink
in these midnight puddles
building impossible bridges
one step at a time

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)

Words fall like copper coins in empty wells.
They make good sounds. They mean nothing.
The young must touch the flame themselves,
Each hand learning its own kind of heat.

I have seen better men than me
Try to pour wisdom into unwanting cups.
The cups were good. The wisdom was good.
But youth knows only its own thirst.

Each morning brings its own new light.
My shadows will not match their shadows.
My victories will not fit their wars.
My maps lead to countries that no longer exist.

They stand straight and proud and right,
The way I stood, refusing the hands
That reached toward me with ancient truths.
Now I am the hand. Now I am the truth.

The silence is better than the telling.
Time is a better teacher than tongues.
Let them build their own ladders of scar tissue.
Let them earn their own way to knowing.

I speak this to the empty room.
The room holds what it wants to hold.
And somewhere, someone younger listens,
And decides not to listen at all.

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

and there you stand in your childhood room where posters peel like old dreams falling and mama's voice still echoes up the stairs boy come down to dinner but you can't come down anymore because the walls are closing in with memories that scratch like vinyl records spinning backwards and the air is thick with what-could-have-beens and supposed-to-bes and every mirror shows a face you're supposed to wear but can't recognize anymore and the pressure builds and builds and builds like feedback through blown speakers until your bones start humming with the need to RUN

TO BREAK
TO SCREAM
TO FLY

because these streets these familiar streets these suffocating streets that taught you how to walk are now teaching you how to SPRINT and every mile marker becomes a battle cry becomes a thunder roll becomes an earthquake beneath your feet because you can't become a butterfly inside the cocoon that tried to make you into something else something smaller something safer something DEAD and now

THE HORIZON CALLS
THE ROAD SCREAMS
THE FUTURE BURNS

until there's nothing left but ashes of who you used to be and from those ashes from those beautiful terrible necessary ashes you finally finally FINALLY begin to rise

Every morning I wake up to notifications designed by gods
who think they know what I want to click on next—
**** on my racism app again?
or is it racism on my **** app?
The algorithms got confused
mixing up all our beautiful human hate
with our beautiful human desire
until every swipe is just dopamine roulette.

You know they've got teams of people
sorting through pictures of ******* and **** flags
trying to figure out which ones violate
their "community guidelines"—
as if any community ever got together
and decided what guidelines they wanted
between pictures of their breakfast
and their cousin's manifesto.

Remember when we had to work
to find things to be angry about?
Now they feed it to us like digital cereal
Pre-sorted, pre-digested
Pre-approved outrage
In bite-sized pieces of careful hate
That won't get flagged by the system
Because the system is too busy
Looking for exposed skin
In renaissance paintings.

The future isn't what we expected—
It's just endless scrolling
Through everyone's worst moments
Carefully curated by machines
That learned to profit
From our emptiness.

The coffee shop still serves vanilla lattes
I still sit by the window
The barista still writes names wrong
The chair across stays empty

Tuesday afternoons remain
precisely what they are
The clock moves exactly as it should
The seasons change on schedule

My phone shows no notifications
that need to be answered
My calendar keeps its neat rows
of ordinary appointments

The route home passes
the same street corners
where traffic lights change
their predictable colors

Sometimes I notice
how the sunset
doesn't remind me
of anything in particular

My friends don't ask
why I've been distant
My schedule hasn't changed
My routine stays unbroken

The world continues
its measured rotation
around a center
that never existed

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

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

'''
we are all b̷̨͎͌o̵͚̊r̴͇̆e̷d̨͠
we are all
searching for the algorithm of flesh

I watch my thoughts
(they taste like stale beer)
while the universe keeps
its digital spam folder
full of prayers

everything is corrupted data
even the w̸̝̎ō̶͜r̵͎̈́m̷͚̐s̸͇̃
even the way light f̵͔̂ä̴́͜l̷̝̔l̶͎̒s̷͓̈́
through smog-filtered consciousness

the women. the men. the parking lots.
all of us
running expired versions of god.exe

and still
the young girls in supermarkets
price-check their dreams
while I stand here
d̸͎̒ë̵́͜l̷̝̔ë̵́͜t̷͚̐i̵͚̊n̷͚̐g̷͇̃ myself
'''

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

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.

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.

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.

wisdom comes
dressed as
failure wearing
everything
we tried
to throw
away

doubt wears
all our old
certainties
like clothes
that never
learned to
fit right

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

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

regret moves
slow enough
to make us
think we can
outrun what
we already
knew was
true

courage shows
up late
wearing all
the wrong
clothes but
somehow still
gets invited
inside

some days
forgiveness
arrives like
morning fog
knowing it
will lift
before we
learn how
to keep it

grocery store
tomatoes
politely
pretending
to remember
what summer
tastes
like

workplace
chat shows
everyone
pretending
keyboards
make the
same noise
as thinking

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

bluetooth
headphones
dying to
reveal
the world
still makes
the kind
of sense
we hide from

social feed
refreshes
like slot
machines
teaching us
to hope
luck knows
where to
look

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

sunday
alarm clock
still rings
like a
promise
i made
to someone
i stopped
being

cat sits
in empty
cardboard box
practicing
the ancient
art of
believing
in perfect
spaces

city rain
turning
puddles
into
accidental
mirrors
of lives
we weren't
meant to
see

watching
my plants
forgive me
in slow
green
inches
after
every
drought

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

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

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

elevator
mirrors
showing me
all three
versions
of myself
i was
trying to
avoid
today

self-checkout
machine
tells me to
please wait
for assistance
like it knows
something
about my
life that
i don't

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

seven
missed calls
from mom
sitting in
my phone
like tiny
universes
of guilt
expanding

emergency
exit signs
glowing at
midnight
like quiet
permission
to change
your mind
about
everything

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

watched him
practice
his smile
in front
of every
reflective
surface
like armor
he hasn't
quite grown
into

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

watch my
little niece
scroll through
life like
she's looking
for something
that hasn't
been invented
yet

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

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