I drive my tank into town,
but no one is in sight.
I fire warning shots above,
But nobody's there to fight.
I was about to leave the server,
when I heard a sound so odd,
I see a flying Tellatubby,
some guy's using a mod.

Her fingers dance along the keys.
Delicately at first, then with more conviction,
As she grows more assured.
"Something inside this one is broken," she says,
The disappointment plain on her face.

Then she moves on.

After a time, sometimes a day,
Sometimes more,
Another comes by,
Finding the notes to her dislike.
"This tone is not where it should be."

And like all the others,
She moves on.

The instrument has been there waiting
For a long time.
When the shop closes,
And no one comes to peruse,
I sit down with myself,
And strike the chords aloud.
They sound beautiful to my ears,

As my heart-strings always do.

i was already
teetering
on the brink
of disaster.
watch me sink, an anchor
hurled into choppy,
shark-tooth seas.

my mind is a millstone
dragging me beneath.
they bored holes in all
the lifeboats. frigid
water numbs both head
and heart. atrophy.

whether waking trapped between
restless dreams in knotted, sweaty
sheets or fighting fascists
in the city streets, everywhere i look
i see no justice, no peace.
constant war. searching
for self-love in the rising
tide of violence. romance
has vanished in a time
where friends become lovers
only to become strangers again.

your hand was the cup
i dipped into a well-spring
of courage, nurturing
and revitalizing.
when your fingertips etched
the word "love" on my wrist
in cursive script, i could've died
amidst that field of bliss.
and when my tongue sampled
your nectar—a faint
haze of bruised star-fruit, bloomed hibiscus,
and Marlboro light cigarettes—
i found freedom hanging on your lips,
a refreshing elixir of hope
to combat my fearful mess.

but now the glass
is more than half-
empty. your absence
has me fashioning
myself a noose
from my anxiety.
so string me up
from the outstretched limbs
of a heartwood tree.
let me die serene,
serenade me with one last glimpse
of your nebulae irises.

this crisis shows
no signs of abating.
and even while i feel
the constant weight of death
bearing down on me, i choose
to live deliberately.
so mute my Twitter feed
if it helps you flee.
sometimes i wish
i was still naïve,
if only to get
some ******* sleep.

The path is willowed,
yet it is not a willowed path,
for what it is,
it is surely not.
What we see,
is not what is,
for what is,
we do not see.
Life is all great trickery.