Slow Down, Slow Down.  (A SONG IN PROGRESS) By Katie Sachs 

VERSE 1:
Lately, I have seen 
Birthmarks that frown 
Sleep with a cat
Eat in the bath

Soil looking for
It's moral ground
Can i flow with it?
Can I grow in it?

​CHORUS:
Thrown out to sea
No one finds you
Could it be me
Shipping you around?

Late in the day
Right behind you
Read words that say:
Slow down, slow down.

​VERSE 2:
Be symmetrical
Stay with the crowd
Don't look at that
Don't eat your hat

Every follicle wants to grow out
Every split end
Just wants to have friends

BRIDGE:

If I capsize 
It's just 'cause I'm lopsided
Everything I want is a pawn shop sacrifice

Oh fellow sailer
Lapping in half-sunk boat
Find me in seas
Breathe our stars with closed eyes  

Skillful Skin By Katie Sachs

This afternoon
I am not working
Instead 
I am willing 
Winding wisdom

What is this?
I remember a time when snakes coiled
Around ankles still warm
How many more miles
Until we are:
Known?
Escaped?
Completely incapsulated?

This processing feels like skin
Sloughed off in endless onions.
And tears.
I wonder
Do pythons perceive a pain
(Or grief)
For every layer left
Like a forgotten plastic bag
Made romantic in the 90's
By a prince predator?

INHALE
BY KATIE SACHS (song in progress...)

During times like these I take a walk 
Around the corners of my mind
Cause my legs are broke and voice is thin
And I know, I'm running out of time

The doctors say I must endure
A pain from my dissolving spine
But it's you my dear that hurts the worst
It's you, who makes it all just fine 

Baby you just take my breath away
The minute you walk into the room
But if you should turn and go away
I never want another inhale
With another girl

The feeding tube delivers food
The respirator gets me high
The heart beats well all on it's own
Because I know that you are mine

Baby you just take my breath away
The minute you walk into the room
But if should turn and go away
I never want another inhale
With another girl

Maraca Massacre. By Katie Sachs

When I look at the middle of my maraca,
My imagination legitimizes this:

A middle-aged moniker
Of someone stuffy - like an Eloise
Or a Herald -
Running across a field
And frantically felling
All of the feelings
They had been keeping in cages
For the entirety of their dusty existence.

Their ribs get ripped out of their racist rhomboids
Their bones become fashioned
Into classy clavichords.
​
In the future. Sometime, undisclosed. 
New age aliens will discover them - 
After the humans have long been gone - 
And in the steamy sludge of the
Apocalyptic stench
They will play
The hottest Jazz
You ever fucking heard.