croon-swooning in my ear due to busted headphone and I’m
dreaming of the Quarter on the balcony; its cobble stones(,)
the swimming air so damp;
suffocated Solitude unlike boating through the mangroves with my father,
while it’s raining here; here L.A.

I’d said I’d see you later and you’d said No,
‘I’d see you always,’
not knowing then, knowing now by quoting me
You’ve never left my side. 

There you are, where you’ve always been, 
tucked within my folded sheath of beating muscle, 
weakened, made of steel, if only copper, weathered blue,
my convulsion and conviction,
lost intention and welcomed friend; 
My love, there you are 
overnight and found me once again;
where we left us;

Some place like departures at the Burbank airport.  

It’s less that I’m in love with love and more that what I crave is knowing that I’m somewhere, someplace kept; 
just make sure that leash is loose; your belly warm, your eyes on mine until it’s time to look away
the way we always do,

And then I’ll pick you up.
Clean my car.
Find you by the smoking section.

Of horizon; 

of soaring seven feet above unwavering ocean, 
speeding fast and high above
the separated distance
like inches from lips.
Mountainous waves stretching higher and taller
(gravitated by?) 
all the tribulations
now steadfast and proud. 
The swirls of blue enrapture, this tempest siren of sirens swirling as I —

…towards horizon;

in lieu of this shambled raft I grasp – 
buckling under the rapture of this storm’s content,
I see no Sun. 
These blue walls turned shadows
threatening collapse and promising pummel;
tackled to the depths no creature has known
as shadow turns dark – 
and Oblivion, 
of the thalassic lateral depraved entirely –

…of horizon.
I dream. 

A self-anointed socialist
labeled this Cuban son of immigrants a fascist simply for wearing his favorite pair of loafers; 
a single pair I have owned for many years. 
His sweater was Carhartt like his reverend Fetterman, 
his patched and tattered trousers ‘Dee-yor-ay,’ as he pronounced them
and his shoes, 
scuffed, perhaps every other morning, 
with the hammer and sickle he keeps in the tank of his toilet; 
before oiling his thinning curls of hair with some soy product attributing to the deforestation of the Amazon, more than likely, 
eating avocado meat around the seed while burning capitalism with his iPhone 
all while cosplaying as the fetishised poor, poor man he had no idea he already was;
or ‘Un-fuckable,’ which I retorted 
after being labeled the everyman Mussolini 
by a most pious, noxiously all-knowing Che

(‘That’s what I want the curls to be serving’).

Even cosplay has its repercussions, Comrade, I suppose 
that’s the message we’re making clear: 
for all funded fashions and ad hominem attacks made towards my sweet and sensitive soles, 
the moment your virtuous mind erupts over a heard idea contrary to your own,
you become the very thing you’ve condemned me of being. 

…Comrade, quick point of privilege, 
may I suggest you review your indoctrination leaflet?

You may have misread a couple points. And you might just be a little scared of a world that has never been better. 


Your Cuban (and fuckable) libertarian

(most of the time; you know my thoughts on the administration and their lack of action towards East Jerusalem, Ohio).

during the pandemic they invented ways to be oppressed.

a case of victim-nicotine; starts like a camel crush on Bushwick nights and roofs and slowly turns to



some newfound label identifying their inalienable right to tighten bands of pearls around their choked,
dignified scrotums.

he told me that he was a victim
and that he fought against his oppressors with kazoos and convincing chants,
spinning umbrellas; passionately and with a heart of gold.
ultimately, though,
that night he took me back to his place
and the condo his parents had bought for him wasn’t as nice as I thought it’d be,

we went our separate ways, said he’d never forget the times we shared and then doxxed me four days later.

Enlightened people talk too much.

the tranquility of their own voice;

the meditations on their every observation.

The understandings in their sympathy,
the empathy in their epiphanies, Oooo…

How much they understand,
how much they care and hold onto patience…

Until you decide to recline your seat.

Whatever you do, like, just –



seat, when sitting a row ahead of enlightened people who’d just come back from doing ayahuasca in Maui, baby, I am telling you, like,

Not even an inch, not


Those fuckers? All light and life?

They will kick and they will cough and they will ring for attendants and they will whine and they will want to fuck the Chakras out of themselves in the lavatories in spite of you –

especially if he’s in dreads and from Spokane and she’s a Pseudo-Puerto-Rican wearing a gender-bending dhoti and designer-matching pair of puttee’s, ya know – 

real zen-faire shit,

off the rack at Rag and Bone, ‘It spoke to me,’ or ‘Burning Man was yesteryear and yesterday,’ their journeys the cis-het men’s podcast in lieu of needed talk therapy, I am telling you,



Do not recline your seats when sitting a row ahead of a couple of cultists sitting in comfort plus flying home from Honolulu.

You will inconvenience these most enlightened spirits, 

And they will get


Look at them!

Don’t you see them?

Count em’ all!

Betchya don’t get that every day.

Have you ever seen such a thing?

I have. It’s in-sane!

None of them know me like I do and



They’re mine to have!

You should really try it out.

I think you’d really like it.

I know I do!’

I took video of a disco ball. 
I tilted it a bit, trying something new, added Paris filter, 
went to bed, woke up renewed when Friday came to play. 

That night, 
I posted up a photo of a drink I’d had, 
added animated glitter, something nice and something fun in filtered Oslo, 
shoes in bed, renown and into Saturday, tbh
I’m kind of like a God.

Later that day, 
a steak I always have at Disneyland. 
Something special with a slice of mushroom, Autumn’s kinda gone I guess but at least we’re living life in Lagos, three sugar cubes in this old fashioned and before I post my postured smile with Mickey Mouse if only for a millisecond do I convince myself that this is living,
glittered steaks and mirror ball –
These things are my Eternity.

Looking back at these stories,
taking record of all who’ve seen my shared and walloped under my gains,
I convince myself that’s true, 
that I am living legend
and in my euthanasia see as I replay these victories one last time
that I have known the world and the world
has buckled under me.

Stroke of woe, my bitter complaint, 
Contemptuous towards these pangs of Sin,
For I am wicked, 
Shackled so I’m judged; 
Still weak-kneed to be righteous,
Mine affliction confused
With these cold hands I wish to clasp
Kneading the virtue of my Right,
With the blasphemy of my Left,
Weighted by His omnipresence, 
His appointment to have me tried,
Beneath His shadowed Light so brilliant 
I succumb with fear before His eye, 
As my heart goes soft, 
This deserved pain of love,
The agony of fools,
For I know not what Man I am,
For I have fear that comes on me, 
Fear of what Man I might have become.