the six:6 apostles

assembled disciples and rebuked views
drew intricate parallels in our course of trails
and formerly known
selves

the rhetoric of
you and me
can be only best described and illustrated by beating
heartache
a six year hungry
strike
that our bodies eventually broke from...

these easy discomforts and sullen eyes
left
me dehumanized,
and while i remained alive, i remain what i am,
an implicated prisoner in your past-dated cell so often referred to as
your heart

now i sit, concentrating on the concept of your
intentions,
you so graciously function as an instrument of
persuasion,
pushing and pulling as you play on my cello stained soul,
until my strings eventually break in the
map of your eyes,
which effortlessly and repeatedly
disintegrates
these walls you helped me build,
and slowly
crumbles
my newly constructed cities...

conclusions draw to such
analyses
that would prove
insufficient
in the help of closing these old torn pages of you and i

i studied them for
six,
forgot what i read for
one,
and re-opened them until
april
clearly, in the absence of my qualifications,
the epithet "us" does not fit in this de novo story...
and now it's ashes lay
charred
on the bottom of my once cleansed fireplace

i tried
we tried
you tried
...
but for some reason 2184 days holds no charm
like the third time
so now we resort to the past memories that lessen this inadequacy of what once never really
but
really was

while i peel my brain from your tightly gripped memories,
my infected heart still beats red from
sores now closed

this savage god we more than once named
love
is now nothing but my debilitating
facilitator

you
me
never
us

you no longer place
"our"
past sculpted obstacles in the way of my
ambitions and projections
to new minds and
partially opened hearts

and while you condemned me to death,
i chose when and how to
die

...
now we need feel no
compunction
in describing our end

so bury me,
like i now bury you

...
and let our frequently dug-up
graves
rest for good

electric bright

bleed these classical cases of cracked paint chips
and expressed translations of present generation theoretical speculations
that spin round in this mobile of sunset words

...and while sleeping pills and crooked days make for
dark circled eyes,
i sit and stare,

while my teeth chew these words that my throat wont let out

this wicker bag which holds me together is slowly ripping
apart at the seams
and now i wrap myself in cellophane so my heart and all it's ventricles
don't fall out into your blue pained fingertips
and past wrinkled palms

of raindrop days

from this tongue comes tin cups and electrical tape confessions,
and
emotions aren't emotionless just because tears don't
equal cries

these guitar strings pull tight, and my fingers can only play so fast...
but I tried,
I tried.

my coffee is stale, and my tongue no longer tastes...

so tell me the history of these pains made in your legs,

which inevitably inhibit you to run forward...

or at least walk at a steady pace

this beginning was the same as yesterday,

and this unusually sweet tempered disorganization of your mental matter

has mastered to ease my mental instability

so now I sit,

bone-framed in this over sized chair with nothing but pale lips to listen

to your throat cut through my bleak expression

You are the master writer

of paradoxes and insufficient poems, to defend any topic,

no matter how apparently indefensible it be...

but your blizzards give my snowflakes shape

and i only made it 90 pages into these selected papers, which were accompanied by the visiting ghosts to whom we name the past...
but three chapters are much better than never opening the cover at all...

and I am glad I met the author

while you speak these words,

they lack these translations of English,

but there is no need for understanding, because re-entering into what happened in the chapter belonging before

mine

is

yours....

Our observations we have investigated...

they were the ones which first provoked this phenomena...

but through unexpected accidental factors which play a much greater part than is generally known and recognized,

it proves to impossible to manifest this starting point from anything but history books

without eyelashes, this path is nothing...

but truth exists in bloodshot and blacked-out eyes... so bruise these eyelids and lend me

your red-wined lips

perhaps along the way, someone will make me a magician....

to make myself a fire-fly.. so that I can elucidate your crepuscular past,

because sometimes the light

secures secular insecurities


but for now, and last but not least,

i pay my debts to the shape of this bent willow tree,

which loaned me my heart when I thought i needed it

...and I wouldn't have it any other way.

scrabble at thiry-below

Horoscope: 5.15.2007: There are good possible outcomes to negative solutions, look at the big picture...

still, i throw paint thinner
across this already blurred canvas
just to see my self-portrait
smear.

I walk jacket less into the freezing
cold which will eventually make me emotionally
sterile

but at least now i feel
a bold sense of "self-inflicted"
pneumonia

this water in my lungs leaves
me drowning or better yet
floating

upside down
without a snorkelers
tube

these bubbles burn my eyes as i
try to draw distinctive parallels between
myself

and
who
i
am

assumed thoughts so neatly pressed
and scrabble boards make for tight
competition

one we secretly hope to lose
but more so want to
win

you lost your trust but
you'll never shed how in this wintered
hat

i lost my tears but
you'll never see how because icicles can't
run

and from this bullet proof vest i
pull strings from my
aorta

in tight-rope forms to your reach with
a fifty-fifty chance i'll loose my
balance

but i have good stability
and i am willing to
try

like soldiers who volunteer for
hazardous war-time
missions

and openly place
themselves in this perilous
circumstance

in this battlefield, together with a
foreseen knowledge of what we could
be

we step into this
freezer so our hearts stay
cold.

unintentional skydiving.

one-handed perspectives and interesting
parallels drawn across the parallels of your tired
wrists reveal bankrupt resolutions and ordinary images that secretly
do away with your motivated and intentional
motives and intentions

...and while you questionably broaden your concepts with
words from your covered eyes, I sit on the ground
and cough up my heart into the safeways of your configured legs.

lights melt as you and I watch the trees form.
we listen to words without sound so softly out
of soft lips, and without sure feelings
we quietly walk into blizzards of objections and new extensions

resolutions counter-act theories upon this unclear glass table,
it makes sense, it makes comfort and
while i lay up and you lay down,
I assemble myself accordingly to fit
your book of directions.

for now, in this abstracted canvas of distortion....
lets sit
lets stay
hip to hip on this broken fence of executed decisions,
and watch our worlds crumble around us.

"...with tired eyes and tired minds...we slept."

Casual chains and plausible accounts
act as interpretive deviations to your
significance of freedom.

With both feet stuck in this pragmatic ground
you draw clear representations
of cranes and linear skyscrapers
while laboring for your happiness
to rot the soil.

Personal preservation retires to miserable
existence and blurs important distinctions between
who and what you are.

Latitude
and
Longitude
stabling your stance.

You tilt your head back and sigh
as you escape
into exile.

Cross-eyed.

Considering the abstract questions,
You search for desperate definitions.

No regards to compliance, no belief in assumptions.
Directed towards directions of no critical consumptions.

Fine details aim discussions,
Underlying meanings hidden in downbeat percussion.

You point
and
I stare.

Templates Written for Geometry.

Strong intentions and implied definitions,
you sit in a head-hand curve
disposed.

You've arranged this
fatal accident
accordingly.

Disoriented, you sketch
circles around happiness,
but only have enough
to
freehand
triangles.