um, Hi

July 3, 2022

The Sun and the Moon House, Beacon Hill, Seattle

um, Hi

Woke up, made coffee & breakfast, meditated. Sat on the porch w/ Al. It’s cold today — not really but overcast & windy. The few hot days spoiled us — I miss them already. “I like to appear busy online.” Who is watching us? Anyone could be, that’s the thrill. Offering, giving something up. I’ve started getting TikToks about romantic obsession on my fyp. Not too rare, I suppose. Most people are obsessed with something.

The air smells like honey or agave — I put some on my cottage cheese — and burnt toast crumbs. Al sits at the top of the stairs watching the cars pass from his seat on top of the incline and a border collie is walked across the street. Allie’s head swivels slowly to watch her pass, then moves on to the next thing that enters our small sliver of street vision: A man on a blue motorcycle. He is uninterested. More my type than his, I guess.

I almost regret throwing away all my old notebooks. Old lines, words, raw materials were useful and I often reached into the bag of the past to polish one off till it gleamed. I’m done with what I've been saying. I want to think about something new. I want to write new words in a way I haven’t been able to before.

angélica maria

i do what i want

it doesn’t matter

i do what i don’t

*

& it matters

*

i don’t want to think

about the color of

the bridge

*

pink or red pink

or red

*

i’m not concerned

i don’t live in a city

anymore

*

i do what i want

and it doesn’t even

matter

*

pink pink red

red red

*

let me ask have you

ever been in a fight

on the bridge

*

i asked were you

pink or red, the bridge

you have been

*

does it matter

does it matter

*

pink & we bite

each other

*

red & we do

nothing at all

(pome from my double zine Poems about America//Poems about an American in Mexico)

white picket activations, 12th Ave S Viewpoint, Beacon Hill Seattle

Do you like this? It made me think of you walking away. What color was the bridge and how many trusses did it have? The river, a stranger’s denim jacket around your shoulders — no, not a new person. Someone who will always be there waiting for your return but not listlessly. I’m waiting for you to return so we can jump into the water together: I promise that summer does come even as you declare it won’t.

When I say “white picket,” I refuse to long for the traditional mode of suburban American masculinity I was raised with: I long for a new version of the American dream. For materials in this series, I recovered pieces of wood left on the curb from gutted houses. I have just moved back to a house that was going to be torn down but is still standing — but the garage I created these pieces in will soon be demolished to build several townhomes. When I say “white picket,” I think of my own complicity in this demolition. I am not from here, but it is the closest to home I have ever had and I don’t know where else I can return. When I say “white picket,” I wonder how to disassemble pieces of myself and combine them in more compassionate ways. I don’t have any answers, but I know the expectations that have been placed upon our bodies are not the way forward.

Woof,

Joe