ghosts in the jukebox

lightning crashed through the theater roof
casually struck the seat next to me
coaxed a hundred thousand kids straight to their feet

the blond one grinned and told us the truth
stepped up to the mic, said, "hey, you know what,
the sun is just a backwards supernova!"

a hundred thousand kids pumped their fists in the air
while visions of dead men slumped on steering wheels
slowly convinced us that this shit is real

"listen, my flock, we have no time to spare!
tell your mom and dad to find higher ground!
we're gonna burn this motherfucker down!"

the piano came in with a big black bang
reminding us all of killer stars
and the static destroying our fragile hearts

flannel-wearing indie kids sang
folk-pop songs about the apocalypse
tonight in hartford, connecticut

i think we all deserve a little optimism (or: in which i reference supernatural, mister foe, & ben folds, plus a couple other kids you may recognize)

i talk so much about ups and downs
i take the downs for granted and i
usually don't notice the ups but

i talk so much about how i can't change how i feel
and then some angel shows up (unexpected this time)
and all i can think about is: i'm happy for some reason

sometimes ghosts kill brothers
and sorrow kills mothers
but sometimes the ghosts were lying
or there was nothing we could do

and my mother is gone too
though my zombie eyes are here to stay but
i am not alone. hey you —
we found a will, so we found a way.
and you  — tomorrow will be shiny and new.
and you — spring will be here soon.

i'll wait for the sound of crickets in the april rain
and then the drugs will ease the pain
and i will not set the house ablaze
with a cigarette

days of men at war, nights of angels' blood

every other day i wish i was a kid who ran away
who had two different colored eyes instead
of zombified drowning eyes and hair
made just to hide behind

every other night i wish i was an angel's friend
alive by day but dead by moonlight
that lights up city streets where i do not live
and colors the blood that covers my lips

but every single day when i come back to the real
i know exactly what i want
it's just unattainable

i have insomnia. its name is castiel.

he turned away
and his eyes on the floor were full of
this obvious and forbidden compassion,
but semper fidelis means semper fidelis, brother,
so he stood at attention,

and when that bewildering remnant wandered in
to make him face his obvious and forbidden compassion,
he found his faith, all right, but
it turned into a mauvaise foi
and he had no choice

but to stare her down with eyes the color of heaven,
and this time he needed no lightning bolts
to manifest his wrath;
she was not struck but she was shaken
and in the end she was gone all the same.

when the light flickered on him, finally
he was able to let things (brotherhood, security, surety)
start slipping through the cracks in his face.
but at the meridian
he still looked heavenward to find that light

i hated the shadows falling on his face
and this is not the first time
i cringed at the blasphemy of angels' blood
but in the end it was his eyes that burned me;
i could not sleep because i was blind to anything else

spring skiing could kill you

exhaustion is not a buildup.
it is not a process or a result.
it is a single point
when you dig your edges into the ice
and suddenly you feel this pain.

this is when you get hurt.

every glance down the mountain
this is when you get hurt
throws doubt in your eyes like
this is when you get hurt
powder snow (oh, if only)
this is when you get hurt
because what if the grade is just a little too steep
this is when you get hurt
or the snow too soft?
this is when you get hurt
it is difficult to describe but:

from the moment exhaustion strikes
i know that any second my legs could give out entirely
and send me sprawling over the edge


i skied like that for two hours on wednesday morning


(the architect of this mountain could not possibly have known
that one day i would rip it to shreds
but not before it ripped me to shreds first)

i'd rather have an MD than be the doctor

so strange that i can wield soundwaves
like a weapon, unlocking doors or killing robots
or cutting human hearts with the
jagged edges of broken promises

when i presided over the massacre i didn't expect
that things could keep fluctuating so fast between
the good and the bad but they keep on fluctuating
like a soundwave

i don't know how many times i can lie to myself
and say i travel alone because everyone i've known
all my friends and victims keep beating my ribcage to bits
pumping blood through my veins

i turned the broken promises into feathers
and made myself a pair of wings so i could fly
far away and stop
hurting people

aren't there any good guys left? (or: wtf supernatural) (or: FUCK YOU SAM WINCHESTER)

if i could speak in light waves instead of sound
i would ask how
is man capable of such specific evils
though in this machiavellian setting
there is no data on what is right and what is wrong,
so instead of building
we put on the obligatory sad faces and lie

so jealous of being the big brother
that when you had the chance
you just had to go abuse your power

abuse the trust of some poor asthmatic twelve-year-old

everything i liked has gone quiet

you can take your middle school and celebrate
in some faraway grove that i will not be able
to visit until i have something to celebrate
i miss not worrying about anything
i miss the things that happened before middle school
or late into the night

i am not hamlet. i do not reek of anorexic
sexual amusement. i do not cause ophelia's suicide.
i quietly hold her head under the water and watch
the flower petals drift downstream and
when they have all floated away i gaze benignly
at the reflection of my own inconsequential smile.

the last time i was with people i knew
i seem to remember being totally alone

i'm just waiting
for horses' teeth to tear gaping wounds in my palms
for the right moment to commit a disgusting crime
for you to use me to whatever ends you wish
and then command me with an uncontrollable giggle

to hang my arms from the walls of elsinore castle
my tongue from the space beneath the dragon's eyes
my lungs above the half-empty cases of bullets
my ribcage on a plaque like some hunting trophy

and my heart from a chain around your neck

sometimes the sundance channel airs this series that helps me feel encouraged. tonight i watched episode 6. i saw lucas and kasey's turning point.

one day my best friend and i
will walk out into the middle of a grove
holding my remnants

i won't expect to feel anything
as we are burning them in
a rusty grill beside a picnic table

but as the flames take hold and consume
i will silently stare
and i will not look away

" 'cause my house ain't a home. 'cause i'm living alone —"

i feel like the murderers on the orient express.
i shy away from killing but you caught me anyway.
maybe one day when my vision stops blurring for good
i will be able to read again the last gift
so bravely written and so despairingly received.

nvm that nvm

when i look ahead i don't see
any adolescents with shovels
and somber expressions for you
but there are already roses on my grave.
i threw them there this morning
because i won't have another opportunity
to buy them between now
and when their fresh yellow petals
will tremble under a dozen pairs of eyes