Hey y’all,
Hey. Got a lot of stuff for you. All of it is I guess a meditative fantasy on everything right now. Sometimes I need to turn away and sometimes I need to stare at it. Sometimes I can’t look at you in the eyes and sometimes it’s all I want. I’m crying either way. If you give $35 to the One Fair Wage Emergency Fund, I’ll write you a poem or make you a collage. (There’s a $75 offer but that would get me banned from Substack; just ask.)
This big stupid stupid stupid world and I’m glad you’re in it with me.
Best,
KJ
A letter on our COVID-19 response:
Dear valued reader:
By now, you may have noticed that many things have changed. By now, you’ve read a lot of things. By now, you’ve had to write one of these “by now” messages for a day job that you may not have in a month. By now, “by now” is itself a trigger, not of fear but revulsion, of late capitalism’s desire to have us be so deeply intimate for the sake of commerce, an exhausting performance. We are never not busy selling ourselves and now we are all online showing how maniacally busy we can be by creating—“creating”! what an absurd concept! what a fucking sham!—in front of each other. I want to sleep.
Rest assured, we are doing everything possible to make sure that we can still provide the services you need and deserve in these trying times. I have sealed myself from the outside world, daubed the threshold like a neurotic wasp with junk mail doused in brow sweat. I sit at my kitchen table and rattle off eleven, twelve, thirty-five Very Productive Poems a day, letting the entire world know that I Am Still Okay and If I Can Make Art and Have a Day Job and a Side Gig and Also Work Out From Home Amid a Pandemic, then surely you can find your own Beacons of Light, too. I wear nothing but a jockstrap and a shawl made of saran wrap, so I can send a pick-me-up boner photo to anyone in need. I think I’m still employed.
That said, we have had to make some changes in order to comply with local ordinances and public health guidelines. I’ve had to color my hair, because by law faggots under duress either buzz their hair or bleach their hair, and I wanted to feel like the type of beach town trash who I crushed on at the turn of the century rather than the beach town trash I was afraid I would become. My name was almost Garrett: bleach it is. I’m drinking in the shower in order to maximize the time I have to myself in this apartment. Sometimes I cry in there, too.
I also want to encourage you to employ best practices with health and hygiene. You probably wash your hands. You probably also have some stupid song to go with it. I don’t care what song that is. The Hokey Pokey, “Two of Hearts,” Chicken Tonite, whatever. I read that eating ass can spread COVID-19, which is frankly a homophobic choice for a virus to make. I jerked off for my best friend on Signal the other day. “For” is the wrong word. We were talking about sheltering in place and the airplane tickets I can’t buy to his city because there’s no way to fly in and the tickets he can’t buy because working for a liquor store makes him an exempted employee, and “for” is the wrong word because showing off is a two-way gift, deep friendship is mutual exhibitionism, there’s no charity in video. I am writing to you: I am here for you.
There is still much we don’t know about this virus. I’ve been told that a virus isn’t quite a living thing, that it’s “on the edge of life.” When I was a historian, I used to study standardized tests. People used to be annoyed that I didn’t focus on actual people doing things, actual people making choices. What I was fascinated by was the sense that something not quite alive, something on the edge of life, could have such an impact on humanity. We sit and fill in bubble grids and feed them into machines and we determine our lives from these tests. People made them and yet they aren’t quite alive. I’ve read how this virus is causing states to cancel their standardized tests. I’ve read how this virus is bringing capitalism down to its knees, or whatever body capitalism would have. What is a virus. Which is the virus.
That is why all of us must band together in this fight. One of my neighbors in my apartment building is ninety-five years old. That’s what I’ve been told, at least. He gets Meals on Wheels. He exercises by using his walker up and down the sidewalk. He likes to smoke cigars on his folding chair. Lately he’s been working through many more of his cigars, the thick perfume clinging to the late March humidity, creeping up the staircase into the laundry room, clinging to the grass where the indoor-outdoor cats wander. I don’t know how he’s going to pay his rent. I don’t know how any of us are going to pay our rent. I don’t know what 1,200 fucking dollars is supposed to do to help. I don’t know why we even have a Senate if this is the best they can do. We are going to die for the idea that we needed to keep companies alive. They are going to use your bones to keep mortgage companies fueled. They are going to use your blood to make sure Hobby Lobby can continue buying genocide artifacts and telling employees that healthcare is a satanic choice. Do you need money for groceries?
I hope you and your loved ones are healthy and safe in these troubling times. There are not many people that I love in this city, let alone in general. One of them is sitting in this apartment; another one spent the night last week; I jerked off for one on Signal; the rest know who they are. Lately, I’ve realized I don’t want much of anything. I’ve shed all of these layers and I realized I didn’t want much at all. I didn’t want much at all. I just want to be a wandering faggot making silly art for my friends. I just want to lift my weights and give you a laugh and feel you inside me. I just want to make sure I can breathe as long as I can. I took a lot of steroids as a kid, smoked a lot of cigarettes in my twenties, kissed a lot of guys, had the warmth from their lungs in mine. It’s been a good time. It’s been a good time and I don’t know if I could kick this if I get it. It’s been a good time and I’d like some more good times. Please.
We appreciate your loyalty. I should let you go. Take care.
Best,
KJ
s*c**l d*st*nc*
i run my fingers
through your hair,
mostly to say goodbye
to the curls on the
nape of your neck
the ones i wake up to
who knows when
the barber will open
up again, you say—
i agree, who knows
who knows who
i take you in
with my clippers,
eight five two,
some touch-up—
i say i’m sorry for
the noise and kiss
you twice and you say
that’s okay, that’s
okay that’s okay
we walk to the cvs
so i can buy hair dye,
i want to look like miki
berenyi and there’s
only so many times.
you say as i compare
boxes that you thought
about dyeing but you
like that people can’t
quite tell your color—
who knows that’s okay.
the next morning,
waking up next to you,
breath to breath, your
lashes on my cheek,
i knew what color
your hair was even
with a clean neck.
boa sorte
(thanks, Meezer.)
This is Miki Berenyi. Lush is one of my favorite bands. Listen to them. It’s easy these days: they’re on Spotify. You’ll understand why I wanted Miki’s hair for the duration.
Did you like this shit? Do you think other people would like this shit? Share this shit. Thanks. xo—kj