in a society where the butter on its citizens’ bread equates to liquid money, we can only ask ourselves how long our fitbits should tick until it calculates for us the km’s it’s gonna cost us to find enlightenment.

and isn’t that what we all crave for, enlightenment?

in light of recent events, this does not seem to be the case.

we have women who hustle harder than ever, only to find the power they achieve and exert unto others are the same as the men in suits with wired sockets blowing up when a business deal fails, when it becomes a game of prey and predator, when the lemons of life cannot be squeezed into liquid form, but lest we forget your queen b lemonade stand can always benefit from a developer programming an e commerce store for you,

because with paypal and stripe we can transfer liquid money as easy as liquid honey. because the issue of money isn’t an issue in our society today, because we thrive on digital money, where the bread and butter for our oh so beloved selves and, if lucky enough, maybe even for those who demonstrate all the unconditional love in the world to you, because that’s when you know it’s real.

where does one run to when a person you have given shelter to skins you alive, salt n’ pepper-sprays you into the rain,

what do you do when he throws you into the pit of your lemonade stand?

acidity burns, let me tell you, pit of the lemonade stand, pit of the fire, pit of the fucking fire, acidity fucking burns, man,

and so does that fire, the kind that put out as easily as you were able to turn 180, man, got you sprung, man…

and into the digital we go, the cycle of liquid honey cranks its engines and soon enough, he’ll be throwing you over your lemonade stand as quickly as your wired copper wirings snap before you–

how’s this liquid enlightenment tasting for you?

he mistakes evil for happiness: the good he seeks

I. 1031/1116

i’m the boy version of you from the future

trying to teach you

no guy

is worth your heart

downloading 12 part porn

takes up most of my day

because i worry about you

more than any one else

i did that for me

not for you

you were for me

but i left you too



They say the quiet ones have the most to say

I knew a girl who collected people

She had an actor (a pretender really), an architect,

and for a while she had a writer

He eventually realized he was not much of a writer;

more of a man with the heart of a bird

He flew free from her collection not long after this realization


As if they were things you could collect


fact or fiction?

I have never felt more refuelled in the sense that i have retreated to my origins of marrow-like misery, as numbing as boiling points’ hot sauce for their spicy fermented tofu we would always used to get, a rise in temperature paralleling the warm fury stirring inside me, a toast to limbo chica, a toast to your newfound freedom that provides you fluidity to your liberated days, as if you hadn’t been liberating yourself the days i’d been up in the skies, up in the air is your attention taken away from the concrete vision of our future, a future in dedication to which i have taken up the skills and passion for cooking, cooking is therapeutic you know, i’ve never felt more release and reward than the moment i’d felt the searing burn from water splashed against oil at the highest of heat settings, that I learned of the understanding the philosophy of romance, which overheats over time, overcrowded, overcrowned, overruled – and yet when the world laughs at me for decisions invoked by my crises, the preexisting thorn embedded in my pumping organ scatters a little, the way you followed the misdirections of your own organs, you’d set the point of interest out of focus, your focus, your attention which fell receptive, by an itty bitty bit of hocus pocus, on that eve, the quickest of winds, and I said that’s bad juju, I get these forelight feelings, on that fort night, running in the wind of an endless melancholy parking lot reminded me maybe you’d always been receptive, to junk mail invitations by allure, to the junk in the thrill of it all, thats what they tell me these days, you taking in junk and wylin’ cuz you young, you out wylin’ as i give another toast to the asshole, a toast with the same old friends to the work i have been getting done without you, and you could get some work done without me too, but you have that option and you strike me through, and yet without you doesn’t mean i am alone, and that doesn’t mean you should be alone, because we chose to meet loss and lonesomeness eye to eye, because you chose this, you said, you did this, you said, as I was hustling through the leaves of autumn, granting me reprise, as your thoughts got a little clearer, and a little more v, I’d hoped you’d see the fault was not in our stars but if only you had remember to love me a little harder, i just mean i’d like to get you alone a little longer, and place your feet drenched in the dampness of my kenzo black canvas tiger espadrilles, when you decided to throw our tangents out the window, not despacito, but vamanos, into the rain, like the photos you would discard of, in a heartbeat, in an instant, an impulse, of no remorse, like the decision you had already made even prior to coming to see me. And that was the moment I knew. fact or fiction? (you’d always wanted me to write something about you).