Junk

by Tommy Pico

  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

  gay bachelor party Doesn’t a bachelor party suggest ho-ing’s

  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