138/365

all his heroes
are suicides.
turn out the lights
and set yourself on fire
the song says.
chris. kurt.
hunter. elliott.
how can there be so many
words for sorrow
and not one comes close
to the tangible truth
he’s known since
those first memories:
the uncle on fire
behind the waves.
the frail ankle
caught in the spokes.
the creeping hands
in the darkness.
the just getting by.
the arguing.
the solitude.  
the crashes.
the hospitals.
the split.
the plunge.
the lessons learned
(embrace the sadness)

because their candles
burn too bright,
we almost forgot
it is twilight.

all his heroes
are suicides,
and so, in this house
we long to be
room by room
patiently,
we’ll wait there
like a stone
to make the
insoluble night
more pliant, the pain
more peaceful—
a collective step
toward a palpable truth.

a song in text

the thing about emptiness:
it’s insatiable.

no amount of e minor chords
or old fashions
will fill the void.

this famished parasite
gnawing itself inside-out
ends in oblivion.

nostalgia
promises and vows
making a difference
knowing more than the narrator
the first time you heard bright eyes
and neutral milk hotel
with mike on that pontoon
on that lake in that jungle in malaysia.

hope and fate
faith and choice
the shy girl
and her way with words

we wrote a song
in texts
we will never sing
never good enough
not enough time
always wanting
never being

the dead sun flower
from the upper east side
still a symbol
whose meaning
escapes us now

how long are we excepted
to keep missing
before we forget

i love you
is never
enough

all my idols are suicides
but don’t you worry
i’ve got these sad song
to feed the beast