asked me out in the first place It’s embarrassing, to discover
under the scar tissue Under the finding love and worth in
yrself Under the rejection of normative approval STILL an
ember for the threat of “validation” Junk is chunky n indistinct
until Zoom zoom zoom Summer nights rubbing yr Junk like
trying to start a fire Trying to reignite us Liftoff! But you had
too much Bulleit bang bang Can you call it dry humping if we
were in the waves in front of Caracas non penetration Yr
relationship with my ass: You can’t keep yr hands off it Give it
a little tap when I get up to use the bathroom at this midwestern
restaurant we stumble into on my frigid birthday
Myriad sour beers we try but don’t like Slide yr hand into my
back pocket at the record store yew dragged me to bc vinyl is
really the only way to hear Diana And even tho I’ve omg duh
heard all her songs I snap on the big headphones & pretend
anything can happen You bite it softly and moan fuck oh yeah
oh my god I don’t really get it I do those lunges with the hand
weights and concentrate on my ass when walkin upstairs but
nothing inflates It’s COOL I’ll never have one of those majestic,
rock-climbing asses jutting from a small arch threatening to
peak over a waistband I’ll never have a David ass I don’t get
that Just have to focus on other things But yr so… into it So
into it that oh hey, there’s my ass again lookin behind my
shoulder in the mirror Moisturize twice a day Buy it plush red
pillows Give myself a little tap in the morning before coffee A
spring as we grab our scarves hats gloves boots sweaters jackets
Head out the door in2 this frigid thing ppl in the northeast
dare to call a day Yr not even an “ass man” Yew just dig mine
One of the reasons I hate gay men is it’s allllllll about capital
“d” Dick and capital “b” Booty Here’s another one: Blow jobs
on rooftops, rims on the riverfront, wet sauna handies like
panning for gold What’s the big deal There’s nothing surprising
abt getting off Getting off is like, why are you so obsessed with
me? Let’s talk after you’ve finished off Yr head is clearly fogged
up in cum shots Junk unused is but a dream, the You of the
future I dreamed up a cargo ship full of multicolored storage
units It didn’t capsize like in the movies It just floated there,
exposing its anatomy And woke up a full 30 secs before the
sadness kicked in Do you ever wish you were always sleeping
I’m a basic butterfingers when it comes to affection, it keeps
slipping out of my paws It doesn’t belong to me or any1 None
of the feels do, they just move through It’s odd, to suddenly
lose containment—the guts busting Where to start collecting
or recollecting Thousands of people blockade the Sejm in
Warsaw over media restrictions I used to practice holding my
breath in biology class in high school One minute, then two,
then three Just to prove the clock moved The seconds tick into
lunch It’s fun, like a trick who resembles neon Mostly, body
feels like a duty A stiff Spurting ketchup bottle Find a joy in the
drum of yr breath Let’s not even talk about how Junk mail is
basically keeping the post office alive rn Another seven offers
to restructure my debt in Spanish Exclamation mark envelopes
Pink stationary urges urgency Bolded words to pressure and
confer ACT NOW New York will have you stomping thru a slow
couple on the sidewalk even when you have no real place to go
Huffingly annoyed at the small line at the pharmacy in the
Duane Reade Train delayed on the Brooklyn Bridge The city,
it seems, was made to fray patience To pump my blood
pressure I want a Snickers n a pack of Peeps n to never go to a
last hurrah? And if both grooms attend? I’m on a scavenger
hunt for the point I have my looking glass Okay so it gives you
the excuse to eat a stripper’s ass at a Airbnb in Chinatown in
front of all yr friends March strobe-like to a karaoke booth
alone at 2PM in Queens bc TGI-Saturday Those damn cicadas
won’t shut the fuck up Oasis or ocean, the much 2 much We
swap spit in the karaoke booth An attendant comes in tells us
to stop How many peeps try to bump uglies in private karaoke,
like is there a secret queer history of the private booth Yr
thinkin too much, dummy Close yr eyes Abstain from that flat
grey jaded-feeling Here comes failure He wears white Being
butt-fucked is a symbolic encounter with death Omg dummy,
you need to smoke less Is it called a bruise when the lips are
marbled by sudden heavy hickeys in the space between new
strangers Texts I recite to friends who avalanche aww, he’s a
keeper “Feelings r neither created nor destroyed but conserve
over time” is the only logical conclusion to dating in the city
The hook up/break up ratio Fucking in the bathroom at the
pie place infuses you with apple cinnamon sage encrusted
chicken pot We don’t say “boysenberry” enough, as a species
Feedback has no intention, it reflects the proximity of output
to input The buzz, The buzz screaming, The buzz screaming at
its screams The echo chamber of internet social media Choose
yr own disaster Dummy, where are you going with this? I watch
TV @ the gym It’s quaint, a real live TV-set like back in the day
War War War on every station on every show Syria Turkey
Nigeria France Chicago Colorado Springs White men open fire
on protesters White man opens fire at clinic White Man Opens
Fire White Man Opens Fire Terrorists are waging war on our
way of life the pundits say Well imagine growing up on a rez,
bud Do you smell the oranges on my fingertips? Do you hear
the cicadas? Writing is witness—in ink the revelation stays My
therapist says um, what? My bank says overdraft fee My bffs
are plethora My health has its hand on its hip, looking mighty
impatient I accidentally type BOOL instead of BOOK n suddenly
I’m writing a BOOL It’s hard to date someone with no sense of
play but probs harder to date someone who won’t stop I’m
sorry I turn everything into a punchline—the grief is loud, but
laffs are louder I feel something dark pulling me down, as sure
as I feel the ancestors yanking me up I will stop writing abt the
conflict of my body when it goes away Consequently I can never
sleep—It’s too dark in there Junk is scary bc this cd be the end,
sang into a megaphone and the megaphone is a BBQ joint I’ve
struck a chord you say, leaving the table Pulled pork is my
favorite Who the hell eats a sandwich with a knife and fork?!
Every fight is composed mostly of not the night in question
What I meant to say was I’m not yr dad, dick Well what I meant
to say was I’m not the kids who made fun of you for having
tortillas at lunch, dummy You are the kind of person who keeps
a white shirt white I am literally guac stains A snip across our
class difference I tried being fan
cy once, with the white shorts
but then I sat in orange Fanta on the train Dummy, you should
have called a car Some Junk will ultimately be garbage The pin
from the boutonniere you slid onto my sweater the night we
first met Let me know what you like if you like I’ll go down
d-down down down d-down down Junk is waiting for a decision
like last call Grandma’s steel 12 string The silver cuff from that
shop in Old Town How much of yr past lingers, having left Like
my grandfather, I keep eagles Who believes in spiritual horseshit?
There is a common misconception abt NDN ppl, namely
everything but esp the sads One blistery summer the pepper
tree rotted, black/twisted licorice crawling up the ground of
my grandma’s garden A reminder Grandpa was not my
grandpa by blood Bikini Kill had an album called Reject All
American Not as good as The C.D. Version of the First Two
Records or Pussy Whipped but yielded “R.I.P.” Ppl die Sometimes
a song reminds me abt pink peppers There is something
essentially American abt me The way I grip the yellow pole in
the U-Bahn The way I sit with my thimble of coffee at Point
Éphémère The way I water red gardenias in the front yard
(despite bourbon & liberal arts) There’s a common misconception
abt NDNs, namely everything, but esp when pink
pepper trees grow like cages in the valley Eagle screams skyward
and He’s in a graveyard & I’m not there Grief is like Junk
in the sense that it’s complicated Just say it, dummy Today I’m
grieving Paris I like that song “Super Rich Kids” by Frank Ocean
It has a similar plank plank plank plank to “Bennie & the Jets” I
lived in another country I had abandon More James Baldwin
than Ernest Hemingway Fearless exploring denied
Kumeyaays for all of recorded history It means something
ancestral when you’ve been penned in for generations I didn’t
believe the sun could set at 10PM Fearless is wrong Not fear
conquered but fear seen, lived alongside That’s what felt
attacked that night Dadaab refugee camp in the middle of a
Kenyan desert Syrian refugees can’t work legally in Turkey
Lebanon outright refuses to erect camps for fear refugees will
want to stay Denmark passes a law so border agents can legally
seize valuables & cash from asylum seekers Suspicion is feelin
w/o proof, a strong belief, a knowing based on previous knowledge
w/o knotty newness Ask me what it’s like to live in a camp
on yr own land for three hundred years Feel bereft by winter-time
But really, the cold is all around us Warmth is the luxury
Junk as insulation from the cold/shoulder of people Junk as a
way of being at the center of yr own universe Engine of old
strobe lights that smell like tar when turned on A site for old
technology, like poetic forms Should we talk abt boats? Fuck
obligation Content as it applies to creative effort and Brand
is it applies to identity are the most disgusting words in human
history Raillan says beginnings Wilkinson, on the other hand—
Nalini says Milli Vanilli or Nilla Wafers were my father’s faves
“I feel you I feel you,” I keep saying—back carved into a loaf of
back carved twice will twist the spine and make one leg shorter
One barrel of a chest Confusing body movements that smooth
when the diaphragm’s in heavy use “I feel you I feel you” I keep
saying, which means: constant pain and paying attention “I feel
you” I keep saying amid a burst of incoherent language, language
bein the thing that we pour, molten n cool and use and
chip and melt down n I dunno what to say when my date
blabs reading is boring That he’d never finished a book b4 bc
words don’t grab him/his attention I wanted to say “attention
is a resource, the groundwater Condensation The band of
elemental scar tissue protects us from solar wind Like a joint
passed back and forth until it singes our lips—You gotta grab
each other” But that’s some hero shit Maybe reading is boring?
Does everything have to be climactic? So terror tallies shorter
and shorter, so Jacob says or was it Mason? Maybe the names
are more like Chunky n Young Bird, Chuka, Limpy n them and
I say “and them” and mean how in “the sticks” where I lived
The rez The mailboxes were like maypoles at the end of the
earth I mean beginning of the dirt road that leads to the home
that is no longer there, but I rest my cheek against the cool
linoleum of my memory when Canal Street is too thick or the
subway slams into the two men fighting in front of me and how
generally, Limpy n them and Beebee and Angel and Turtle and
Sterling n them and Chop n them Someone wd drive home and
say who’s that at the mailbox You would suck your teeth and
say Bee Sting n them and you generally don’t want to be one of
them, but if needed, if someone was messin with you at school
They n them burned with intimidation Thems wd literally fight
all yr battles for you The whir of yr coffeemaker The squeal of
yr springs announce our interlocking In this story the well was
full (of love, ew) The hero cd come and go as he pleased Every1
thinks they’re unprecedented Without a replenishing source
of groundwater, the well depleted lil by lil and the only bucket
he had was a hat (jk gross) So he got trapped down there A
lock on the bridge An old self I pat on the head Post yr grief
Have a personal anecdote It’s crass, performative, self-centered,
and only cute when I do it Call out everyone’s lack of grieving
everything simultaneously Just because I’m not in public
mourning doesn’t mean I’m not w/ grief Mourning sickness
First things first: get out of bed Another black man shot by
police Another missing woman in Indian country Another trans
person discovered by the roadside Another mass shooting They
pile like stones and overtake the poem Resist wanting to burn it
all down Native basket grasses paperwhites mint and irises
elderberry and honeysuckle A bunch of baby oak trees and
pines The yucca The butterfly bush Somehow ppl still can’t
read my mind The pearl, peck-heavy man at the gym with the
penis I call “hosey” needles me into the showers Curiosity without
danger—Or maybe desire informed by danger I can’t exist
that way in my body I live too much in danger’s pocket My kink
is minding my own business But the poem is much more hospitable
Embrace the pivot & plow What’s the point of living
like a beautiful shut-in I’ll stop writing abt my body’s danger
when one of those goes away I’m game if you still are But you
aren’t, as if our feeling was a heat and we just stepped into a
windy February night—slapped from love I’m emptier when
we’re together It’s never just the night in question They always
come back I tell Chantal They always have Which isn’t true, but
satisfaction lies in the delivery Pizza I sweat thru my shirt,
buying my coffee in dimes n quarters or when the checkout
person swipes my debit
card at the end of the month and it
says Processing . . . On the old couch in the tower the flood sings:
You are small and cold and here for so little, you are already
gone I’m not like a regular slut, I’m like a fun slut Thoughts
jamming jagged and panicked into the next The wreckage at
least suggests reflection—Now what? It’s never just the night
in question Memory echoes Come on dummy, you can’t remember
everything Roy and I argue side-eyed abt how we met
Junk is so anti-pretty it’s actually beautiful I like funny-macabre
A wicker casket, for example What’s good? No, literally, what is
“good”? You say good looking or good writing or True Detective
I don’t understand the proxy convo you’re having couched in
“aesthetics” I can’t even hear the cicadas over the sound of yr