Ugly people, why they continue to exist, what must be done about them

It has come to my attention that some of you are okay with this. I write to tell you that I am not. Who do you think you are to inflict this kind of a monster upon me as I try to go about my existence unmolested? Have it go to where the ugly people go. Make it live under me like a morlock. Let it only emerge from its hole when it conveniences me. Let it whisper nice things. It should sit by fires surrounded by monsters– some with horns and most with pointy teeth– so that the light licks its face, never revealing the whole.

Computer on

Scroll through drafts and write corrections,
emailing the old man your notes.
Note the main screen beside the side screen
as you curse, cursor pointed,
as you curse, time travels forward,
as you curse, letters spill from a vase
into which they can't return.

Clacking in a hallway no different
in China than in the Americas,
no different in India nor the great continent
of dark folk,
no different in the snowlands covered in blonds.
Everywhere the shoes sound
sounding fainter as recognizable figures
become dots
too distant and numerous, resembling dunes.
Behold the desert
and to the left the photocopier,
cackling in the hallways no different
to those who've traveled knowing
a forest of monkeys
but nothing grows.

We walk about holding squares.
We travel mornings to face squares.
As time progresses we become quadrangular,
moving as if we'll fall off the edge,
having gone too far.
The round red sun flattens to purple
and we end the evening covered in a sheet,
on a rectangle,
a shape too present,
a signal too high in frequency to be heard.

In air conditioned ergonomic rooms
we build an anthill that'll turn
the earth the shape of an icecream cone.

The file's returned inside an organized click
exploding in the main screen.
I move it to the side screen,
having screened it and having found it wanting.

Escaping the hollow

Little one with your garb ill-gathered
who told you you could come here
to live among the terrible people
who don't see you in the hallway

Your presence is an imposition despite
your perfection
and perfect won't do for the masters born.
Your taste betrays your need for work.
Your inquisitiveness is an unneeded ripple
in the plane of a paradigm set by their fathers.

Let's walk away to the porch by the dusty road
to sit on rocking chairs and observe
carts drawn by horses as we eat mangoes,
letting the sun alter the shadows of trees.

Tell the sun to say goodbye so we can light a lantern
and drink tea with ginger
so the spirits can talk through your grandmother
who doesn't say much but is always cooking.


No longer are epics written nor sung
And we hear
It's because they're out of fashion,
But consider that of our multitude born
There are few (if any) protagonists
And no glory other than sports
can be had beyond the accumulation of capital.

See how boring those stories are
Because innately we sense
The lack of virtue in unrestrained fat purses.

We still long for virtue, at least, so perhaps there's hope today's monsters
Can be vanquished.

Hear the story of
Defeating the climate crisis.

Tell the tale of how a tyrant
Was overthrown by leaders
Who passed-up power.

Sing a song of how people
Who've had enough surveillance bullshit
have taken back privacy.

This is what's left
After dragons and cave dwelling creatures.

And it's not a song for dullards
But misfits like you.


I've learned what few dare to learn, 
Who carrying stones will
After old, squeezed of life's juice and binned learn.
I learned what they learn early, what the horse having run breaking a leg sees,
I see it now,
Perched atop a hill who all descend reluctantly, lulled to the conviction they'll die at the precipice,
Surrounded by healthy voices.
Brown is such an underrated color,
Its descent from heaven like manna for me, a premonition, rendering me prophetic from mere observation
Of my father and my grandfather
And mother who still runs up the stairs. She'll die with sword in hand.
My eyes beam the colorful view of the seer,
A crazy ranting man in rags ringing
A cowbell.

Read and you'll peer with me past the fog
Into the place between heaven and earth,
Past the blasted nonsense you do daily
To for once breathe independently,
Asking if you've listened to your will calling,
The will quieted by the impulse for survival
And the care for all you care for.

Have you listened to your will calling
You to move into the sun with a cold glass,
asking you to simply exist
Not for the sake of unknown others?

I live yoked to the movements of humanity,
Watching; its ambition consumes
It to extinction, its perfect predatory nature its own destruction, followers of the teachings of this one and that one,
But I am not special,
You can see too
The false heroes the world has created,
Our plummet into a void.
See with me the end, grab your helmet,
And laugh.
Laugh and enjoy your favorite food.
It's too heavy, carrying all the people,
And its not your job.
Billionaires are out there somewhere
Building spaceships for their children
And your children will behead them
Because they're still full of hope.
And I'll laugh with you.

Chirp chirp boo hoo

Banging on the ceiling by a downstairs neighbor bearing reproaches, I'm indifferent, 
Feeling the evening like velvet settling over me,
The air undulating with sounds of a temperate city.
I think of jewels and the value I am and the value I could be,
Provided I'm not broken by reality. I can sit, television humming.
The birds are silent. I try to picture them sleeping and also picture how it is to sleep as a bird,
Tired from gathering twigs and worms and discarded bread, unimpressed with my ability to fly, perhaps I dream of walking,
Perhaps in another life I dream of being me.
I'll be a whale.
Maybe I'll turn down the music. There's banging again. The lady downstairs wears a scarf but I don't remember her face and the super is a superior old lady
who doesn't do anything
Except mop in the mornings. She brings in cheap labor for everything else.
I end up fixing my own things,
Ending up tired like a bird who's been gathering twigs,
Wishing I were somewhere else
“I’m tired of this shit”

Your problematic bestie

So we went to the pierogi spot,
a spot my company wouldn't have chosen,
but I was tired enough of the manbun and sandals crowd.
We sat and the group took issue with my words not preordained
by Twitter.
The draggings, I embrace them like I sometimes embrace
the one closest resembling a wife.
The truthful essence of things somehow exists beyond approval.
It causes you to risk life and reputation, if you ever had one to begin with;
I don't.
So as I sipped my stout not of a microbrew variety,
I thought of how I'm one of the simple folk marked for extinction,
but I'm among you here
and I hope there are some of you out there still living,
beyond the approval of others, a truthful essence
of man or woman or in between or out between or no between,
or meandering, perhaps above or below it all. It's the cross
sometimes thought culturally christian,
but really a result of syncretism used by cultures
that would've otherwise vanished.

There's always a tension between individual and collective good,
there's a collective fear
that if I'm truly myself, that if you're truly yourself,
we'll have forgotten our parents, our wives, husbands, children,
but the inner and outer for me remain connected
and the path to the crossroads remains open
and I accept you all,
even the manbun and sandals among you.
I just won't go to your restaurants.

Joseito Mateo

We drank jugo de chinola from large glasses,
your argumentative nature made tolerable
by breeze cleansed by untamed palm trees
dotted across the capital.

Joseito Mateo was from the country
and he seemed like a cool guy.
He sometimes wore a straw hat when he performed
a merengue dance in which he occasionally threw
in a spin.

These are the things I think about when you argue with me
and I can't help it. I'm an asshole and Joseito seemed so happy.


It's much better to sit on grass indifferent,
me and you by the river.
I don't know if we'll ever be allowed that peace
but I pursue it;
For the ultimate freedom
is to be creative unconfined by want of currency.
I must center myself in opposition to whatever drags me
to an eccentric without consent.
I must move truly of my volition and without compulsion
to be human is not to chase and to gather and to eat
to be human is not to be watchful of potential attack
to be human is not to sniff at the air at what's fleeting
to be human's to be a ghost
to lay in the sun with no fear of consequence
to float to the stone streets of distant lands and have coffee
a cigar in your mouth
breathing from eternal lungs.

If you were a spirit, what would it be
or would you exist at all
not having become whoever you would've been?
Is it better to be an adult and do you have enough towels?
Perhaps it's better to kill yourself
that a real person take your place.

My commandment

Destroy nonbelievers
all of them
be fanatical, fiery and ruthless
seek them out in their homes
terrorize them in the street
and say
that you are capable, you are proud
and you are worthy.

They think the world is only for those
that walk just like so
for those who speak like so
for funny looking assholes
and we must refute them
refute them with pointy objects
with claws with bullets with words.
Don't believe their calm voices, the liars.
We are poor but we're not stupid.
From the muck we see them,
from the stench of unwashed bodies
we hurl the stones within our reach,
from our rags we tie their nooses,
from their pretty teeth we will fashion our bracelets
and drink grape soda.