JERROD SCHWARZ
How to Haunt a Tiktok Cringe Compilation
It helps to think about your most vulnerable tantrums:
waking up to gunfire and cow scream,
calling him the devil just to hear it out loud.
There will always be too many young adults
trying and failing to be held, but I trend
toward the videos of pup play and vore.
Good god, it must feel like a waterfall
to wear the mask of something that only thinks
"I need more meat, I need less moon",
to huddle against someone's stomach polyps
and whisper, "I will never be more caressed
than this, I will only ever breathe
someone else's gasps."
Worlds Chat, the Oldest Avatar Chatroom
is abandoned the way gas stations at night
are abandoned; someone's paying to keep
the lights on, someone's paying to keep a gun
under the counter.
I don't know how to answer the only other person
in a low-poly space station when they admit:
if he was mere inches closer to me,
I'd have gotten turned into broken bone Jell-O
and died instantly (hopefully).
The corduroy couch, where you finally curl
inside the sponge of your own oozy lungs,
will always cultivate new kinds of dust
so I tell them Glad you were unharmed!
and log off.
A professor once said to me that data has weight,
and all of it adds up to about as much as a strawberry.
Is it irresponsible to see every byte of porn
as a seed-bearing fruit? Is it less than reverence
to hope that every chatroom, every doctor's note
and autopsy report
makes the world a little heavier?
Sturdier?
Jerrod Schwarz teaches creative writing at the University of Tampa. His collection No Name Atkins was published by CLASH Books, and his most recent chapbook, What the Barn Can't Kill, was published in 2020 with Blasted Tree Press. His poetry has appeared in VICE, Entropy, New Republic, and many others. In his spare time, Jerrod draws and plays Tony Hawks pro skater with his twin toddlers.