Tommy Pico

from JUNK

Kissing with a mouthful of M&Ms dunno if I feel perverted
or into it—the lights go low across the multiplex Why am I

in this cup holder? B/c yr bubbly, dummy But I plop more like
corn dog bites dipped in nacho cheese All escape, no gravity

Yr so comforting, like fucking on an empty stomach; funny,
but a lil obvious, like a wrecking ball factory going out of bus-

iness I feel held up, like yr examining my x-rays and nothing’s
broken Should I be nervous? No, it’s too dark in here for that

There’s light and a screen and our moon faces, reflecting This
is an epic, dummy Get yr muse
Hail Janet Jackson, patron saint

of Eternal Utility but Selective Relevance I whisper Feedback,
into the bedding Sucking noises and gagging noises

Everything that can cross I am crossing: eyes arms shoulders
Back to bed, come back here The air is heavy feathers in mid-

summer, literally and metaphorically in my foul apt above the
chicken slaughterhouse where we wheeze awake the way I

try to wring myself of shame Chasing pay day like day light Yr
bangs look real perf n coiffed n strangely I smell like horror

burgers n you smell like lavender doves and all the best stuff
I’m like why does this meaty yuppie man want me to wake

up in his arms but Janet says leave yr worries behind I’m
trying to close my eyes I’m trying to close my eyes I’m trying

to close my Shudder yr forehead against mine tectonic San
Andreas in the West Village karaoke piano gay bar whatever

I still can’t close my eyes I just spent $13 dollars on this marg-
arita Black Velvet is loud and extra theater kid in the world

around us This is where you come to lose yrself and This is
where I feel extra jagged Junk not immediately useful but I’m

still someone Indian ppl are born extinct tasked w/fighting our
way back to living The same could be said of poets I can’t stop

lookin at ppls junk generally so u can imagine how hard it is
at the gym I try to keep eye contact but the orbs soft n breath-

less glow their orblight all over me—we’re seeing subarctic
farming in Alaska for the first time Green in the hazel country:

That’s what I’d call the color of yr eyes I’m a brick in stadium
lights like so fantastically broken but I’m ok Junk gets a bad rap

bc capitalism Junk isn’t garbage It’s not outlived it’s purpose—
Junk awaits it’s next life Old trains whistle in the distance


if the spark is elemental
if the phase changes

the first thing we noticed was your eyes your big eyes looking right at us

if infusing the valley with yrself
if light is over
if a crumple of heavy human in the careful hair

the birds I forgot abt the birds says auntie out from lock-up

if vapor
if the carapace

the universe whirrs its ghost of TV snow

if I pick my nose
if I see a flannel
if I was your girl
all the things I'd do to you


Winter is a death threat from nature, and I don’t respond well to predation–

it’s not like summer, death in the form of barking men
takin issue w/the short shorts and the preen and the queenly holding hands

god forbid u step into the gnashing cold for a fizzy water and grapes, forget yr keys, the cell battery dies n yr roommates out of town with their holiday families

plus mittens are dumb af

AND it’s easy to fantasize abt snow when yr raised on the cusp of a desert—

Kumeyaay ppl aren’t built for winter like matapho–I mean metabolically
and it happens, get this, it happens every. damn. year.

There’s no exposure in southern California,
no clanging heat in San Diego.
in LA? The snow comes in a can.

Cold was a curiosity, like rain. A ghost. No. A reanimation, a flourish of calendar art and novels with families in living rooms, huddled in a blizzard’s fist.

We used the fireplace
for its smoky tang. When rains came from the eyelids of the sky, I cd feel the land licking the roof of its mouth. Hella satisfied.