She’s discretely picking herself up
yet again.
her toothbrush is in the front pocket
of her ripping knapsack
her necklace
refastened around her neck.

he’s still holding on to
her vintage
beach rock CD.

someone will always walk away
with something that wasn’t theirs.

the look in her eyes
when she was trying to drive,
was exhausted by the streetlights
and repressed remnants of
secretly sought after destruction.

she and her passenger
were separated
though verbalized indignation
seeped into
timid toleration.

he’s god knows where
touching who know who
it took three whole days
to move on.

She’s not strong
she just knew he was wrong
and lost in a throng
of undesirables

left overs in Styrofoam cases
with their names carved out
are shoved to the back of the fridge
silent and molding
like unspoken words
hanging their mouths.

it’s the mid-afternoon
and he couldn’t be bothered to wake up
before two.

she slipped out of his grasp
and dangled off the porch
in an overcast lavender blue.

back inside
the wood floor gives way
to her moon beam knees
and she loses perception
in the imperfections
of her dreams
and realities.


c.m.
7.15.14

his voice is like poetry
while I’m sleeping-

I cant make sense
of the information I’m
gleaning
in tidal waves
spawned by
the moon that is his mind.

the space is stuffy
and I’m
sweating,
tears for the idea
of a young man who never existed.

every new face is a pawn
in the facade
of a game I’ve spun together
over years of misfortune
and emotional torture.

I’m enraptured
by the subtleties of self
you capture in such
spirited convalescence.

In an effort of defense
I will plead the ignorance
of a meager age
and a shifty stage in life.

i am prone to strife
that entices me
late at night when
the dishes are piling and
ash is frosting my kitchen floor.

I’ll make it back to bed
when the sneaking wisps of daylight
come slithering
across
your uninhibited sprawl.

I really
should
stop
playing God.  
c.m.
8-19-14

I called you at 2am
because i missed the way
your voice crackled
in the static
even at an unreachable distance.
I lay here,
eyes shut.
imagining countless scenarios
of how I might see you again.
however,
you look so much better in my mind.
and online.


c.m.
8-19-14

How strange is it that I forgot about you?
I used to write poetry about you-
you were my stand-in muse.
again and again
I replaced a strangely
unspecific space
somewhere I’m unsure of
somewhere a midst my center.
you.
don’t exist.
you are the minutes,
yes,
and all the miles between wherever
I may happen to be
and whoever I currently need “you”
to be.
you’re fabricated, you see.
and only briefly appreciated
because you will never
blow my mind.
you’re only as large
and fantastical
as my imagination can stretch.
so you see?
you’re no great threat.
c.m.
8-19-14

so strange
it should seem
how vividly those lost moments
reappear to me.

they seep into my conscious stream
like the steam
beneath a ***
simmering on the
low heat of three.

I’ve never been much for
the romanticism of lost time
regardless of the frequency
at which it
captures my complacent mind,

but the silent movies
that wind
and unwind
behind closed eyes
are redefining
the circular lies
you seem to find comfort
in hiding behind
in order to maintain sanity
in the circling calamity
of present circumstance
and reoccurring coincidences.

I am victim
to the incident
that serves as
a lingering question mark
of the intent
behind the recently
protruding insolence that has been
festering since I
refused penance
on the slight chance

I’d find a savior in myself.

C.e.M. 8.19.14

the lights hung,
suspended in the fog
of the incoming storm
like lanterns from across the barriers of hades.
your faces hid in the shadows
drawn on like your thick eyeliner
and smudged, ****** lip stain
worn from too many cheap beers.

the methodical flashing of streetlights
played a song as monotonous
as a morse code metronome
spitting out meaningless phrases
and chords
that lead to no resolution nor reprieve.
with the flick of your lighter,
you ignited your somber visage momentarily
as we sped down winding hills to the highway.

the times were changing;
they were tearing down buildings
we had always taken for granted
and the friends we made
in our childhood
now lingered as undisclosed phantoms.

would you really go back?
if you could?
to the room in the morning
to the knife tucked in your boot
to the side of the road
to the carcass of your
festering
forgotten
fallacies.

or will you get in the passenger seat

and move forward with me.

C.e.M. 1.6.15

I awoke with a burnt tongue
And wild hair-
My body shriveling up
At the touch
Of the cold empty air.

Naked, and you had the blankets;
How did I ever think we'd make it.


C.e.M. 12.26.14