01
    Inimitables
    

    To be at the right place at the right time

    May you keep this sensation in a blockchain
    Don’t forget it,
    Sensation that we were going to change the world
    everything happens for a reason
    We will always be friends 
    walking around on a sunny day
    we didn’t even need to remember 
    where we were coming from,
    Digital immigrants traveling with lifeboats 
    from different times,
    
    One of a kind,
    
    Not expendable because we encrypt ourselves 
    in hugs made from DoCs and Bpros,
    eternal second, in which kindness 
    covers the planet like a naïve tsunami 
    of transformed energy,
    all sickness healed without war, or hunger, 
    or all of the other weaknesses 
    that make us so human that we can’t stand ourselves 
    and we are obliged to swiftly eliminate ourselves 
    for the good of the planet,
    eternal second,
    the revolution we sought,
    the zillionth scam to the zillionth power,
    
    A group of words physically pronounced 
    cross the air and they form an image 
    that lifts us up,
    
    Changing the dance allows us 
    to see excited bodies, 
    the ones containing so many dreams 
    that the streets are deprived of oxygen 
    from the deep breaths of these living, 
    inedible organisms,
    
    One of a kind,
    
    resting peacefully in their code fountain,
    Synthetically searching for new truths, 
    they head towards the nucleus,
    
    Stripped of its clothing, the cell strolls naked 
    through the streets of Greenpoint 
    looking for a blockchain to call home,
    
    The blasphemous poison that carries us 
    towards programmed death,
    an existence housed in the mines of Langfang 
    or perhaps in a Dataist church in Chicago,
    
    Crypto-predators and crypto-poets 
    rejoice in the code’s truth with the POW workers, 
    confidence in a system that nobody can destroy
    if we stay united,
    if we inhabit what makes us unique,
    One of a kind,
    Not expendable 
    because we encrypt ourselves in hugs,
    in tightly held hands
    

    02
    Metareality
    

    A gram of Ethereum falls on the floor 
    of a restroom in an art gallery in New York,
    Two friends discuss the DAOs 
    in a backyard on Kent Avenue,
    Elon Musk tweets about fossil fuels 
    and my roommate loses thousands of dollars,

    Mint me, turn me into something unique,
    Token me again and 
    give out my little bits to engineers,
    Hyper put me in an infinite sequence 
    until it overloads,

    We are trying to discover 
    the deformed mask that hides scammers 
    of this non-religion 
    whose gods are being invoked 
    in real time and live streaming,

    What if we are the scammers?
    What if this is just an inflated balloon between us?

    The fathers are Sathoshi Nakamoto
    We continue
    distributing helium amongst mortals

    Minotaurs that don’t have to learn to way back,
    Now they drive horse-drawn 
    carriages without fear of getting burnt, 
    creating the legend’s code,
    constructing the primary material 
    with which new realities are written,

    Meanwhile,
    the artists think that only creativity 
    protects purity,
    the main reason for creating the piece of art,
    this idea spreads like a fine film 
    over this level of impertinent reality
    like Hephaestus’s net over 
    the unfaithful Ares,

    The rest will be mud and sand,
    blood and guts,
    broken glass put back together 
    without shine or rhyme,

    Let’s get out of this binary logic!
    Let’s reach towards a new level of reason!
    Let’s debate until we arrive 
    at something that isn’t either of us, 
    something that is found out of this world, 
    but affects this world,

    The terrifying hybrid because it’s unknown 
    will be the next evolutionary step

    Mint me, turn me into something unique,
    Token me again 
    and give out my little bits to engineers,
    Hyper put me in an infinite sequence 
    until it overloads

    

    03
    New Worlds
    

    New worlds
    New worlds to escape to
    New worlds because this one is getting old
    New worlds because fleeing forward      
    Seems the only way to bear existence 
    without possible answers
    New worlds we build	
    so, we can have the answers 
    that old worlds built by others didn’t have
     
    New worlds wanting to be the future
    but can only be the present 
    New worlds getting old 
    just after they being created
    New worlds that can’t be new 
    without a new language
     
    New worlds built with old material
    inhabited by old people
    New worlds being born  
    not wanting to be born
    not wanting to be worlds 
    nor to be new
     
    New worlds
    New worlds while the one we thought was old 
    is still new
    New worlds that will grow older 
    faster and faster
    New worlds that will never give us 
    what we want
    that don’t need flesh and bone
    but a soul
     
    New worlds as living organisms
    rather than containers of living organisms 
    New worlds that will only be new if filled with 
    new things and new people
    New worlds that will only be new
    if we go extinct before we create them 
             
    

    04
    Picasso in Botswana
    

    Art is a game 
    And not everyone is invited to play,
    Art is a game 
    And if Picasso had been born in Botswana 
    nobody would be buying postcards 
    with his works in the gift shop of the MET,

    Art is that which we agree is art,
    If someone doesn’t agree, 
    we call them a heretic and we throw them 
    in the Hudson with a sculpture of Robert Indiana 
    tied to their legs to see if they float,

    It’s art if it doesn’t sink in the dirty waters,
    It’s art if five zeros line up to get in your wallet,
    It’s art if it smells like gold, 
    tastes like gold and 
    weighs the same as gold,

    It’s art if you stop repeating how good it is 
    and you stop to look at it, 
    if you stop trying to understand,
    explain it,

    Picasso en Botswana passing out pulas 
    and on the walls of the MOMA 
    they hand pieces of his melted ego,
    Without seas,
    Without people,
    Rivers of people doing what they DON’T feel, 
    doing what they think they’re supposed to do, 
    what someone told them they should do or 
    what they read in the Time Out New York,
    in the Brooklyn Rail,

    The Setinkane drum sounds and 
    someone plays the Phala
    Picasso walks slowly 
    through the streets of Gaborone 
    while on the other side of the world, 
    a painting that he didn’t paint 
    sells for millions of dollars,
    Nobody knows who Picasso is
 
                
    

    05
    Burn after Selling
    

    I can’t believe you idiots are buying this
    Banksy
    
    Baring witness is participating,
    two hundred grams of aluminum and glass
    you hold in your hand while 
    your eyes hypnotically contemplate 
    the vertical scroll,
    collection of chords 
    that vibrate asynchronously 
    in the absence of beauty,
    
    your hands too,
    your eyes too,
    your neurons too, 
    the ones that die in the repetitive synapsis 
    of hypnotic enjoyment,
    
    Shredding after selling,
    
    Burning the original after selling the digital copy,
    it is not a copy anymore,
    it is not something analogic,
    
    Shredding after selling,
    
    Encrypting before anyone finds 
    the tomb of the original profit and 
    we are resurrected from this alienated sensation 
    that we are more alive than ever,
    
    Shredding after selling,
    
    Giving a piece of dead skin that’s 
    at the point of falling off from gravity’s reign 
    or a piece of the right ventricle at its height,
    so, we can prove
    that the object’s weight and profundity don’t matter
    only the sensation you get when you touch it,
    only the far-off feeling of the primitive attribute 
    that disappears if we stop using it.
    
    Shredding after selling,
    
    Physical scraps,
    finite and infinite chains that prevail,
    They don’t exist they aren’t anywhere
    You can’t stop the digital wave,
    this horizontal yelp that lifts you up 
    to listen to incomprehensible words, 
    a tsunami of zeros and ones, of blinking lights 
    that blind and consume at the stake, 
    the one that awaits those that believe 
    in this insane transformation.
    
    Sheredding  after selling.
    
    A new shadow is forming in the cave,
    The fire of the future replaces the fire of the past, 
    while the burning present
    longs for serpentine flames 
    that can reach the heavens of knowledge 
    finally free,
    
    White smoke sustains 
    the cement of civilization, 
    as we know it,
    Black smoke
    when hate replaces understanding,
    
    Shredding after selling,
    
    Mint the ashes of what used to be,
    but
    What happens when there is nothing left 
    because there is nothing combustible left to burn?
    When the servant burns too 
    like his children burn and the children of his children?
    
    The new universe cannot be imagined from our reality
    it went back in time to build itself.