(getting real with Mz. Kate Wadkins re: technology)
I’ve started collecting, writing and re-writing material for Hey Teebs #2, which is going to be a zine-length story in poetry and short prose about dating a drug addict, the weather, internet hook-ups (“fuck the pain away”), memory, “getting back together,” and is set in Brooklyn, my reservation & San Francisco. It grows from a series I started at the end of 2010 called “Doppler,” between Teebs (the narrator) and his boyfriend/exboyfriend Zephyr, which I read in its infancy for Max’s Fagcity series at Pussy Faggot, and Brother My Lover at Envoy Gallery (which I think is now called Participant).
It was my project last summer at the Paris American Academy, I used it as the writing sample for my Queer/Art/Mentors fellowship application, and worked on it all October while staying in Portland with Roy.
But I’ve let it breathe for the past 8 months because I realized I honestly did not yet have the skills to articulate what I envisioned. Ultimately people don’t think in language—we are interpreters, so I’m giving it another listen. This may be a part of it (in some incarnation):
1. June Gloom
Our well is a Mission kitchen—
well vodka rocks half-off, jerk
chicken—we’re always brusing
The Franciscan mission system
spread up the coast of California
in the 1700s, Spain slapping
for a vein at each natural bay.
There’s lots you crop from pics,
sips of of interests and summary
“About Me”s: yr jaggged weaning
from mothers milk to Jim Beam.
The MUNI whisks along the same
track, but always forward. You may
be curious to know about the deep
dish airport food court pizza,
but you won’t be mad— yr head
a fog and mattress stuffing— not
even in a bad mood. June gloom’ll
burn off in the afternoon.