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"Tommy “Teebs” Pico is a poet, podcaster, and tv writer. Pico grew up on the Viejas Reservation of the Kumeyaay nation, near San Diego. His father was a reservation chairman. Pico started writing comics at age 5, and as a teenager created zines and wrote poetry. His name in Kumeyaay means "bird song". He is author of the books IRL, Nature Poem, Junk, Feed, and myriad keen tweets. Pico's first book IRL is written as one long text message, drawing on the epic tradition. Pico co-curates the live reading series Poets With Attitude with Morgan Parker, and he is the co-host of the podcast Food 4 Thot, a podcast about queer identity, race, sex, relationships, literature, and pop culture. He is also the co-host of the podcast Scream, Queen! with Drea Washington. Scream, Queen discusses marginalized people and horror films. He now splits his time between Los Angeles and Brooklyn.
Source: http://tommy-pico.com/about-1Live Readings
Live Readings
Poems
Poems
From Nature Poem When James hugs me hellohe stoops(bc he is very tall) nuzzles his forehead into the hookof my necktakes a big, long sniffgrowls soft and low. James is a stonecolddummy. But when he does that?If this was an 80's hair band music videoI wd totally groupietoss my frillies onto the stage of James.
--from Nature Poem
--from Nature Poem
From Food
Keep the dry and wet ingredients in separate bowls before mixing. You do the egg/cream thing, and I’ll take care of the salt/flower/sugar situation. Reader, do you hear the moaning plane overhead? Feel the beating noon heat on yr t-zone? See the sizzle of foam on the salt water? Poems light up corridors of the mind, like food. If I owe poetry to cooking, this is an inheritance of that lineage I grew up on a food desert, a speck of dust on the map of the United States—an Indian reservation east of San Diego in a valley surrounded by mountains that slice thru the clouds like a loaf, where the average age of death is 40.7 years old. I am 32. I live in the busiest city in America. I am about to eat an orange. Every feed owes itself to death. Poetry is feed to the horses within me.
--from Feed
Keep the dry and wet ingredients in separate bowls before mixing. You do the egg/cream thing, and I’ll take care of the salt/flower/sugar situation. Reader, do you hear the moaning plane overhead? Feel the beating noon heat on yr t-zone? See the sizzle of foam on the salt water? Poems light up corridors of the mind, like food. If I owe poetry to cooking, this is an inheritance of that lineage I grew up on a food desert, a speck of dust on the map of the United States—an Indian reservation east of San Diego in a valley surrounded by mountains that slice thru the clouds like a loaf, where the average age of death is 40.7 years old. I am 32. I live in the busiest city in America. I am about to eat an orange. Every feed owes itself to death. Poetry is feed to the horses within me.
--from Feed
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