Anastasios Karnazes
How All Spit in the Place

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.