No Place Like Homo
For Jordan
The line moved, and moved, and moved again
Not like a drawing or a rope
But a border, a limit, an end of capacity
They had been reaching out, wings at full expanse
Trying to encircle, and possibly hold,
The meager amount of oxygen we had left
No amount of glitter or cancel culture,
No amount of perverted sex or organizing
Could prevent the talent from succumbing to their addictions
You see, time had piled up in this way
Stacking diagnosis on failed romantic love on poverty
More than just a gloomy Sunday
We are dying inside ourselves.
The line moves, and moves, and moves again
Not like a drawing or a rope
But a revolting dance
Jess MacCormack is a queer, mad artist and white settler working on the unceded ancestral territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səl̓ílwətaʔɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations. Their art practice engages with the intersection of institutional violence and the socio-political reality of personal trauma.