Jose Padua

Enigmatic Tweets of the Food Service Industry by Jose Padua

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Photo by Jose Padua
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Gibberish, Hallucinations, Paranoia, and the Long Way Out of Town by Jose Padua

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UG_LongWay

Gibberish, Hallucinations, Paranoia,

and the Long Way Out of Town

 

by Jose Padua

 

I can’t remember the quick way out of town anymore, and while we were stuck in traffic on North Capitol Street this morning, we saw this man standing at the entrance to this building, which is listed as the address of the Ida Mae Campbell Wellness & Resource Center. From behind the man looked like he was perhaps a businessman or even a doctor, but as we waited in traffic he remained at the door, and after a moment I could see that he was staring at a sign above the doorknob. When he turned around briefly, I could see he had a totally blank expression on his face, the look of someone who is far beyond just being lost. Then he turned back around to stare at the sign.
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Poem by Jose Padua

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Poem

 

by Jose Padua

 

RehobothKohrCone_UG

POEM

Although I support
my sisters all over
the world in their
struggle for equality
and quest for empow-
erment, I must confess
that from time to time
when I say the word
“titties” it is not one
of my Tourette’s tics
but simply me, thinking
about breasts the way
a six year old thinks
about ice cream. Sorry.

-Jose Padua
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In Homage to My Ancestors and Their Dirt by Jose Padua

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In Homage to My Ancestors and Their Dirt

 

by Jose Padua

 

Ancestors_30per

In Homage to My Ancestors and Their Dirt

Because everyone else writes like
the past was one long fucking fairy
tale let me say that my ancestors
passed a lot of gas. If we saw them
at our door today we would stand up
for their rights but we would not let
them in the front door. Sorry, but that
ever present fart smell precludes their
entry. I love them and I respect them,
but I have enough difficulty breathing
as it is. They also don’t know when to
look away from you. For some reason
continuous eye contact was the norm
for them: what we now find unnerving
was for them a sign of respect, a sign
that they realized the influence of the
past upon the present and future is like
a trail of dust that bends through wind
and sky to meet us around the corner by
the cupcake shop. And daylight back
then wasn’t always shrouded in fog
or mist, and we didn’t all live near
the water, and if they could talk the
way we talk now they would, and they
would ask, as they look at the world
and what we’ve done with it, “What
the hell is all this shit, motherfucker?”
And, “You realize that while you’re
busy staring at that little black box
I could easily bash your head in.
Then I could eat your brains, and
thus gain possession of your power,
your knowledge, and your soul. Not
to mention that ugly blue box you call
a mini-van.” Ah, but if they don’t kill us
how we will drink, how we will feast,
how we will honor the past together
with each swallow of roasted pig,
pave the road to the future as we wet
our lips with room temperature whiskey.
Ah, how the days will go by, and how
the clouds will fly like white birds, and
turn to rain and turn to snow to cover us.

-Jose Padua

 

José PaduaJosé Padua’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Bomb, Salon.com, Exquisite Corpse, Another Chicago Magazine, Unbearables, Crimes of the Beats, Up is Up, but So Is Down: New York’s Downtown Literary Scene, 1974-1992, and many other journals and anthologies. He has also written features and reviews for NYPress, Washington City Paper, the Brooklyn Rail and the New York Times. He has read his work at the Lollapalooza Festival, CBGBs, the Knitting Factory, the Black Cat Club, the Public Theater, the Washington Project for the Arts, and many other venues. José also blogs at Shenandoah Breakdown with his life partner, poet Heather Davis, and at the blog, Kings of the Road, and for Salon.com. José Padua’s most recent collection of poetry is a chapbook, The Complete Failure of Everything (2008: The Apathy Press Poets, Baltimore).

Photograph by Jose Padua. Jose Padua is co-author of the blog Shenandoah Breakdown.

World War III Will Start in the Minds of the Deprived and in the Hearts of the Depraved by Jose Padua

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Trash day morning

World War III Will Start in the Minds of the Deprived and in the Hearts of the Depraved

lost in an ocean of shit
I’d gotten myself
in a discussion
of Fascism
with an ex-Army man
from Chicago at this bar.
He didn’t like the way
the word got tossed around,
having something specific in mind.
I was trying
to throw the meaning everywhere,
from politics and law
on down to the ancient practice of foot binding
and the excessive use of make up
by women who aren’t hookers.
All the time my eyes were
on the barmaid’s hips which
were squeezed into these tight black
spandex pants.

I knew I was too drunk
to be talking about anything
and too drunk to be
thinking
about anything but sex.
I also knew I was
too drunk to do
anything reasonable about it,
so I paid,
gave the barmaid a nice tip,
said goodbye to
everyone and
left.

I got home,
walked upstairs,
and threw up
all over the books
on the floor of
my room.
There were some
good ones there,
some of which
I hadn’t read yet.
I picked them up,
wiped them off
with a dirty tee shirt,
threw the shirt in the trash,
and went to sleep,
ready for nightmares
filled with Nazis
and no women,
all because
life is too short
to be spent
looking for
peace of mind.

- Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua. Jose Padua is co-author of the blog Shenandoah Breakdown.