Jose Padua is a dish best served cold with onions,
mushrooms and tomatoes in a light broth and
accompanied by a rich lager with subtle aftertones of lemon.
Jose Padua is Arnold Swartzenegger’s imagined tumor
in Kindergarten Cop right when his headache is
at its most painful and the students are ready to revolt.
Jose Padua is the citizen who doesn’t look like a citizen,
the American who doesn’t look like an American, the
human being who doesn’t look like a human being except
in the looming darkness between the last of the previews
and the beginning of the feature film, that precious time
when the prospect of being entertained puts us all
on what the industry calls “a level playing field.”
Jose Padua is a plastic container of air freshener
shaped like a cone that’s run out whatever makes
the almost but not quite pleasant smell that makes
a bathroom smell like a bathroom and not something
that’s been manufactured in an unusually clean factory
in Wisconsin (not that anything is made in America anymore
besides debt, predatory lending, and opportunities
for fatuous demagogues to gain political capital).
Jose Padua is the alley in the neighborhood
he grew up in where all the drunks would stop to pee
and which all the young professionals who were moving
into the neighborhood would complain about because
My god, this is the nation’s capital they would moan
and christ he would pee there too in wet protest of
gentrifiers, scenesters, and financial speculators
because it was his home before it was theirs.
Jose Padua reads fancy books with fancy poems
and fancy stories and fancy essays and the fancy people
who write these fancy poems and fancy stories and
fancy essays totally ignore him except for a few
who’ll nod and say, “Hey, how’s it going, I haven’t
seen you in a long time? Have you bought my new book?”
and Jose Padua will respond by asking, “Hey, can you
lend me a condominium in a rough but upcoming part
of town? Can you spend hours staring at your multi-colored
aquarium fish? Are you the slow, lonesome journey
to a swiftly revolving oblivion?” as everyone whose spirits
had been momentarily lifted feels a dull ache in their knees,
and the thickness of the air that surrounds them makes them
think that time has stopped and been replaced by two or three
hit TV shows from the 90s that no one wants to watch anymore.
Jose Padua walks softly on delicate red rose petals through
the new renaissance he’s creating in his head—you should
take the time to pause and praise his creation; Jose Padua
swims through the ether with neither fear nor loathing
while making elegant strokes on the shifting surface of
popular trends—behold his cultural criticism whenever
you gaze at the nighttime sky and feel like you’re about
to sneeze. This—right here, right now, right off—is what
his lone bright soul contains. This is his vision of what
is crass and obscene and what you need to do about it.
This is his gift to you.
Photograph by Jose Padua