if your pilot light should die
do not quake and do not bark
see, you will find the spark

if your tree should bear no fruit
do not worry, do not spill,
you are beautiful

if your clarinet should break,
do not cry a million lakes
do not cry a million lakes

if the wind surrounds your house
do not turn and twist about
just wait it out

if your hand should lose its grip
do not tremble, do not sweat
where then, would you get

you have got the looks, my dear
to make a mountain shake
imagine me

you have got the voice, my love
to melt a lake of ice
imagine me

if your heart is unemployed
do not rush, but do not stall,
‘cause i’ll be waiting
i’ll be waiting

-the low anthem

waking,
dreams lift like steam from
skin beaded with tiny
palaces of sweat
and i,
gasping in the release
from nightmarish visions,
grope for some warmth
and find none
but my own.

if i walk into the darkness, i’ll be lost
if i try to stay, the light will show my false

anyone wanna talk to me?

i slip in between
stop breathing,
listen, listen, listen.
you hear the paranoia?
over sirens blaring and eyes glazed
you see the desperation?

i think he smokes to forget
the abandonment suffered
before he was able to raise his tiny, starfish fist
and curse those who gave him life,
and now he fills his body until it cannot hold anymore,
laughing artificially, kissing always.

i don’t know if i love him,
though i’ve said it enough,
i’m frightened of showing him what’s inside
how very frail and small i am,
beneath the layers of confidence, and structure
how much i yearn to simply be held,
to be very much cherished.

i’ve tanned
silly, it seems,
such whiteness could taint to a pale pink,
a somber aching darkness that
blooms in the pores and stretches to crow’s feet
and smile lines
i’m young, but
my skin dies quicker than i

i spent all night shivering,
and the next day dying.

i ached for his long hands, where the veins
so artfully intertwine, natural lacing.

i could feel his smile, miles away, it warms
like some soft slow surrender.

but later the cold comes back on inside him,
and he leaves me be, to wretch and moan in pain.

since i was born here, venn-diagrammed, thrust into the middle,
i’m used to silent torturous hope, but…

this golden boy, surfer sheen and marijuana glaze,
tears down every solid structure of mine.

i read it
coitus with the pages of a book once thought dusty, and
perhaps even perverted
now tears of shock color every page,
dogears the wrinkles on its slender skin,
caught between the throes of love and the hesitation
of crimes unspeakable

though he’s simple,
his hands follow forgotten paths
along my skin.
he claims the softness i retain is what guides his fingers
along the ridges and arches of my sleeping form,
but i know it’s the stillness in the night
when his heart beats with nightmares looming
when he reaches out to me,
snoring softly as i do, unfeminine as always,
and finds heat there,
always ready.

keep quiet
the fire’s almost out
you poke it with rusted tongs
ache in dancing reflections
that coat your sea-blue eyes
sandy rocks in the center
a spattering of earth before the blackness of pupils
like someone’s bullet that pierced
the skin of you

broctopuses:

i suppose i’ll have to get used to simplicity.

lately i’ve been living in parks
sitting amongst other homeless, bedless souls
we laugh in clothes just a little too muddy
and blow smoke in each others mouths
here, the contents of my lungs
though blackened they may be
i give to you
for you to hold

im frustrated
with his self-euthanizing
and the flutter of his colorless eyelashes
(have you ever seen
such ethereal light
as that bounces off those wayward hairs?)