bring blood back to the fingers

2006-12-01, 10:29 a.m.

success or failure, which is more destructive.

i comply to the voice of reason, for once. i found an entertainment value in being dragged down the road, half expecting a friend to become brad pitt with two six shooters, gunning down a sleek black yukon behind us.

scratch out the cold-finger-text fury from my daily routine, its a measure of dimes and 'im sorry'. i told her a while ago that i wont give up untill i get her or she slaps me. leaning against the post of a bed there is a hollow cracking in my head, apathy on the palm and disregard painted on the fingers, i imitate the motions, i even touch my lip to make sure it isnt bleeding. of course there are no signs of blushing on my cheeks, no puffing lips, or swelling tear ducts.
i fight back with my hand, and wave goodbye.

blinking inerest causes me to look up the word for passion in japanese. it feels more like a splintered log floats in the heart, flakes become stapled to my heart when im a sleep, and throughout the day i have to pick them off.

surprisingly, the moments not spent on absessed wounds are cloudless sonnets about answers wrapped in blue-gray poetry. a pocket edition of Lao-Tzu keeps the mind in constant wonder, never shadowed, a pacemaker for the jilted, enjoyer of solitude.

polarity is integral though, yang never overpowered the receptive yin. so that must be it.