Nothing gets me through a workout quite like fantasizing about running away with Sundance.

Your brother calls your from down the coast,
there is a limp in his voice,
it is new and raw.
He never speaks of these things,
the sensitive things,
but today,
and uses the word “heartbroken” for the first time you can remember,
says he feels like his arm has been ripped off,
feels like skin turned inside out,
all nerve endings and disease,
feels like God became distracted twenty-four years ago,
when He was filling your brother with organs,
because what else could explain these hollow spaces inside of him?

Later that evening,
impossibly,
you stumble across that girl
at a bar you never go to;
you know you are supposed to glean meaning from this,
but you are the shell of a believer,
have never been too good at putting pieces together,
assigning meaning to novelty.

You got your own wires crossed not too long ago,
took a baseball bat to whatever frightened mess of love you still had left,
he told you not to let this defeat you,
you want to tell him the same,
but now it seems everything is falling apart,
and a pair of heathens like you
aren’t predisposed to believing in destiny;
you are terrified of this drifting,
this lack of gravity,
both of you convinced you will never again
find another constellation of a human
to plant yourself in
as the afterthought of a connecting star.

You go home and begin building space suits
out of all the things you have ripped and broken.
Cardboard sleeves,
beer bottle breathing tubes,
peanut shell insulation.
This mess probably wouldn’t hold a lick of fresh air,
but you think you got the sizes right,
and the intention.

You will wait for the moon to fall heavy and orange in the fall.
He always believed in things you made with your hands,
and you never felt safer than being tucked in the bottom bunk.
There was a time that between you,
more years passed than words,
but this is over now.

And the two of you will go skipping up the coast,
into the night,
like some echo of a great ark,
and the all the sadness behind you
dressed in its skeletons
will find itself in chains when the heavens open up,
when the rains come down.

When you disappear into a sunflare
you won’t hear anything
not even the gentle rattle of ankle bone in shackle,
surface of the earth crumbling into ash.
You will take your two broken hearts
and your acne scars,
flee north to that galaxy of a skyline
fold yourselves into its cosmos.
It will feel like pressing your feet
into the pink sand of some foreign planet
ripe and ready to begin.

This. On repeat. All night.

audiblemoonshine:

The first video (and last poem) from my senior thesis recital. More to come.

fordofthelies:

you wrote your number

on the slip i have to give 

to my manager. 

A Crusade, but not the last one. There is a kind of love that can outlive you. We miss you miserably. We love you very much.

i.k.s.c.

There is a piano in my kitchen, and my roommate is singing sad songs that remind me of you.
Her voice is crawling up the stairs and my sister is harmonizing,
and there is a pice of LA in my kitchen
and for now,
this is keeping the dark outside where it belongs.
Some nights are okay.
These nights are okay.

(via Harrison Ford | This Is Not Porn - Rare and beautiful celebrity photos)

If the word
literally embodied the meaning,
then even with feet on the ground
I’d be halfway to the moon
or your door
by now.

Moving day. My new roommate is excellent.