Let life lay
on top
of life, falling asleep
texting you
next to you
please don’t do it
without
me, while I sleep

I am abandoning
my own
permission, like I think
you know how
I mean.

Can’t sleep without
the light
of my phone
on your face,

rolling in
a trance
I had to start
to watch
Episode 9 all
over again.
Robes in

a cavern
underground. I
could write it
all down
I could
write it all
over that
internal experience
like that. “Yooo I hope
when I die
I hope that
it’s forever.”

Texting that
to you
to fall asleep
next to you for me
not to, to
still abstain, I think how
you know.

iPhone in my
own hand like
the obligation to
live life
as its
own
placebo heaven
like a heavy planet
like the
light of the
phone on your face
at night.
I text you
“content addiction.”

I’m trying to move
past it
I think how
you know what
I mean
when I
write that.
Trying to go on
outlasting myself
after it
already as if.

Surviving the
gates
every survival
must say
I’m sorry
always
the face of survival
the face of apology…
I’m sorry
I’m vibing
not surviving
I’m survibing
this feeling I get
when I
text you back

immediately, scrolling
pictures of us
I saved
like I remember
how I love you
only in words.

I love when
we text
each other crying.
Yeah keep that
like that
life of its own
placebo light
on my
face
mirrored
from the
phone
as I write your
numbers on my leg
to count
I start to
music
videos instead.

I started
loving you
forever just now

as I lost my
place in the song
the video
is about. If I start it
over again, the
video about
the song
about you sleeping,
reading in
like sleeping
through
the way of reading.

I read too fast like
holiday.
It’s so beautiful
to read

forget
like hate
scrolling
votes or counting prayers
for the end

another phone
to take
a picture of me
on
the phone with
this phone. Watch
my desktop save
the files
that save me from
the nothing
I’ve become. Love
survives itself
as misreading

a cat
gnawing my USB
I forgot
as sharing and
saving
are just
metaphysics.

 
             *for Alan Darth Gilbert*

ASIF THIS IS IT 1

Author_SmallLeftAlignedTitle

An exchange of two surfaces
both dosed high with hormones.

Policies, mine, prevent myself
from committing malpractice.


Surviving a grand opening, myself takes in
patients, providing the most basic.

            *Dying is so scary and bad.*

Myself was made to make difficult
the possibility of dying. How, in the face
born of intention, maintaining biological
life, could the desire to die make sense.

            *You should leave your phone at home
            and go out for a walk. It is fall. The leaves
            are still red, and it isn’t too cold. When light
            from sun is set at such an angle, things are
            so gorgeous outside. This will remind you
            of how gorgeous things are inside.*

How in the face: desire is the proliferation of exchanges.

Myself, bearing bottomless sex organs suitable for affection,
becomes a welcome site for any other that looks me over.

            The mouth of my lover’s hospital
            produces spit. My hospital’s opening
            mouth makes room to receive the spit.

            By way of a glance, my hospital demands
            my lover’s hospital to coil, grasp
            around my throat. The hospital
            responds accordingly.
                                                              Is there anything
            I cannot internalize. I have

stopped going to the doctor’s since a misdiagnosis.
My teeth hurt, and I will keep them. My headaches,
occurring more and more frequently, hurt. I will
keep them. When reconstruction seems impossible,
one must be willing to feel lots of pain. I do not
like pain. I want for the grip of my lover

                        to hold, even tighten, in order
                        that I might be held. My desires
                        slowing in order that I might

                        part unperished, biologically
                        refuse destruction. Displaced grip
                        instead arresting my quick belly.

How All Spit in the Place

That it is great poetry
is as published as it’s written
when I’m the editor to write off
how it’s great to stake decisions
hedging that poetry poorly asks
to pose the stakes so low it reclines
under it to pass as publication
that poetry is just as great a decision
I’m free to pose in myself
as writing published poetry.

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