Uncomfortable white man
Looks at his watch.
Uncomfortable white man
Wants to scream at the kid
Up somewhere around row 6 or 7
To simmer down,
Stop crying.
We all feel like you.
Uncomfortable white man
Signals the attendant.
Uncomfortable white man
Is thirsty..wishes he bought a drink.
Uncomfortable white man
Doesn't want to pay six dollars for a *****.
Uncomfortable white man could afford it.
Uncomfortable white man
Glancing at his watch again
Not allowing it the time
To click to the next analogue minute.
Uncomfortable white man shifts,
Uncomfortably.
Uncomfortable white man
Crossed his arms,
Grasping his wrists.
Uncomfortable white man
Isn't accustomed
To being
Uncomfortable.

The battering ram of the underclass cruelty had left pocket marks in his dark skin as the quarrelling customers threw down cash just to ****** it back up as though they were bartering against each other for due time and money owed. He did nothing, save sit there and blink. I thought to myself it almost looked as though he was counting each second in the brief flutter of his eyelids. Open and closed they went, up and down, on and on. The two men were still bickering, each insisting the other owed more than he. My orange juice had begun to sweat in my hand, and I was anxious to eat my late night snack. I considered quietly persuading the two boisterous fellows to conclude their business and exit, but I feared what form their anger might take when reassigned to my annoying interjection. Saying nothing, I waited, testing my own patience and hoping fiercely they could move along. Some fifteen minutes later when all insults and insinuations were spilled out into the open air like oil into the ocean, the duo finally exited and I made my purchases, thankful to be rid of their company, and as I left I saw him sitting, stoic, still blinking rhythmically, not a word nor breath escaping his lips.

Rusted ringlets hang
Precariously pouring out
Of a metallic scrunchy.
I can’t keep myself
From glancing intermittently
At the slight glisten
Of a cocktail
On her cupid’s bow,

Then, a few inches below,
Her taut neck,
A small piece of cloth grasping
Its sculpted edges
Begging the question
How it would feel
To cup her face
With fingers embellished
By cheap and chipping paint?

Would she settle there,
A placid pool of profundity?
Or would she seep between
The cracks of my fingers
Unable to be contained
By such a simple stranger?

She adorned the corner
Of the couch
With such grace.
It was breathtaking,
As she spoke in rhythms
Lining the crests of her intonation,
Hazel flashes kept tempo,
A conversation shifting in tandem.
Poetry in motion.

Today is the day
I buy that bus ticket
for somewhere
on the other side
of the methodical mundanity
I've dubbed "daily routine".

I become
the salvation army
second-hand sweater
to the space in between me,
and wherever I end up.
Worn,
warm
and welcoming
to anyone who hungers
for comfort.

detached. seeing, not feeling
the chair the ceiling, the floor
spinning and who am I kidding-
it's long past when I should've
had my last laugh, when I
passed midnight and the
highlight of the day was
the meager wage of pity
I accrued from a
generation subdued by a
preposterous possibility over-
exaggerated in expectation and
reaching for the highest
creatable version of elation
without laying the proper
foundation built by
layers of training and daily
straining that compound
into callouses and graying roots
until we are austere
and astute or at least
that's the excuse we will use
for the continual quietness we
exhibit, inhibiting
relationships to flourish
discouraging speech
self medicating with synthetics
that inhibit hunger
fidgety and without epiphany-
cemented to the same place
later than you should have stayed.

We want what we want,
never mean to misbehave.

September 11, 2015 C.e.M

Do you remember what it felt like?
that first time you felt something.
what was it like?
before grass was just the potential for stains
and a hiding place for bugs
that bite and itch
long after the day is over.
do you remember?
the way the air felt rushing through your window
the first time you noticed the seasons
and chose your favorite.
I can’t recall the angst of choosing an outfit
or the nuisance of tangled hair and chewing gum.
all i remember is the afters-
after i fell I had scabs for two weeks
after he left,
I wasn’t sure where I fit in.
After I switched schools,
After I learned how to do my makeup
After the sessions just…
stopped.
after they told me I had flat feet
after I wasn’t good enough to dance
wasn’t fast enough to dive
wasn’t keen enough to pitch.
after my lines weren’t crisp enough
my circles weren’t round enough
my words weren’t big enough.
wasn’t cheery enough
loud enough
sweet enough
wasn't
pretty
enough.
I don’t remember how it felt when I looked at him the first time
or how it felt learning his name
his hobbies
and his favorite sports team.
I hardly remember what it was that made me so happy
I just remember
holding his hand too much
and the sweat that always seeped between our adolescent awkwardness.
I remember what it felt like when he took too much though
when he was suffering and
so was I
but helping him was all I knew as a distraction.
I remember the strange faces and the late nights
and the police wondering what a
fourteen year old girl
is doing across the bridge at 2am.
I remember the drop from my window to the frosty ground
i remember the bite when my ankles hit
I remember the pang when I slipped.
What about sorrow?
do you remember what your heartfelt like
when it was still light?
when all those childish metaphors fit just right
and there was no need for anything other than trite rhymes.
what was it like when we trusted everyone?
when plastic bags
were just for snacks
and it was never a question where your drink came from.
When did my beanie baby turn into a switch blade?
I’m carrying around mace
like a safety blanket.
when was our innocence taken?
when did we get so hostile?
so sore?
so depressed?
How long is the list of things we just
“live with”?
Because it started with your ankles and then it was your shins
now your entire lower body is
caving in
that’s not even mentioning
what’s beginning in your head.
you used to think everything worked out-
at least eventually.
But everything is getting worse
your parents
your brother
your country…
it’s a divorce from practicality
that has spawned this disturbing reality.
I would change my mentality
but it’s been created to keep me safe.
at least that’s what they say
and I repeat to myself.
because now I remember,
i remember the things that keep me away
from the bus stop
from the gas station
from 202
from downtown.
I remember what happened
up the hill
on 35
out past the churches and the sea of dried corn.
I remember the sound
of the cicaidas
and your breath
and the sirens
I remember you telling me I was a hot mess
and I told you 
i needed to rest
when I was really depressed and you
never really questioned my sanity
the way you should have.
I wonder when I’ll decide
that I’m not getting by and I'm
fooling myself with the lie I've
sold to ease the burden on my weary soul.
I don’t have a home and
yes,
I’m alone.
But I live with it
I live with myself
I live with the scabs and the scars and the bites and the scratches
with the blurred vision and tired tendons
I live with it because
what else
is there to do?
I can’t get through to you
and neither of us
want me to.
copyright:CeM 10-2-14

water poured, hot
bag steeping
quiet feeling of displacement
seep in with soft speed
tea leaves dispersing.

lemon squeezed
take it easy.
stir, stir, clink.
consider the options
for the second half.

map out plans
though title waves
and an old title track
on napkin or flyer back

jukebox static
brow semi circle refills
cream curdles from
remnants and resales.

stale smoke
quiet choke.
cup empty, the words gone
and payment is entailed.

grab your small cash
set the sails
past parking lots and guard rails.

Original Write: August 19, 2015 Edit September 13, 2015
C.e.M.

"How do we even have fun sober"
A candy coated joke
Left to choke on when your throats dry
And you're too high to talk-

Just cough or walk it off
But when you come back
Honey, mind a top off?
Better tips if you take off your top
morality is a short drop.

C.e.M 12.3.14

I've noticed the way
Your smiles have slowly grown
From the polite crinkles you create
For strangers in unsettling situations
To a happy twinkle
and a flash of your teeth
In the pauses
Of inquiring speech.

I wouldn't mind
If you came to visit
Every day this week.

C.e.M. 2.20.15

Take me by the hips-
I’ll devour your lies like the spit on my lips.
Thumbs pressing into my collar bones-
I’ll be your throne.

I starve myself for you to fill me
This infatuation will **** me.

Nose ******-
Am I your honey?
Text me once a week-
This only means something to me.

We’re a one sided thing
But you’re the centerpiece of my dreams;
The consummation of my demons.

I've noticed your scheming smile but
I haven’t felt so
Hopelessly enraptured in a while.

Destroy me,
Please
Don’t mind my scabby knees.

I have a habit of falling
In and out of logic
But
You aren't a project
No not someone I want to fix-
That bag of rocks
Is just a box of tricks.

You’re a train and I'm sitting on your tracks
It’s just a count down until we smash into oblivion
Aphrodite,
I’m your Gideon.
We aren't apart of the same story
But mines 16th century,
And the glory has faded into the pages
from decades of irrelevant stages.
.
I hopped across bindings
And stereotypical findings
Because maybe
You’re meant for me.

Maybe I’m pushing too hard but
Our histories are intertwining and
the mysteries you decided
To pick apart;
Well they’re coming back to haunt you.

We collided over a fire
And an irregular heart beat
set by amphetamines;
You don’t know what you did to me.

Fever dreams when the fan is on low
Vacant thoughts make the hours hollow
You’re alive,
I know it but you only surface for me
When you want to see how quickly I’ll come
Eat out your hand
you extend
so

Selectively.

I shouldn't feel so honored that you've chosen me
But those eyes,
God those eyes.

I can’t stop swimming through them when I close mine.

I can see galaxies spinning in your pupils as
The sunrise begs to begin,
But noon will come and I’m buried in
Your possibilities
So effortlessly imagined;
So impossibly enacted.

You distract me from reality.
You are the thing that will never be.

You’re toxic-
A poison.
A deadly,
Delicious treat.

I’m voracious for the heat of your breath
On my neck once again.
Fingers on my chin-
Tilt it until our eyes align.

What a disastrous lie-
I’d die for you, spy.

I won't make a fool of myself
trying to excavate your passions;
We will return to
polite smiles in passing.

c.e.m.

...and at the end
I'm scrambling for just a little more
**** and for words
and your redundant rambling
is broken English
trying to communicate things
I'll never understand.
When I remember my last wish
I check the kief catch
the last shot 'till I'm dry
and with an empty barrel
and hollow sloshing guts,
my porous bones will snap
under the weight
of morality's fate
and my wayward ways.
I'll crash into a parade
of memories
that will spiral around me
as I plummet into the geyser
that last dopamine rush
that will ****** me into
the fifth dimension
the crystalline eclipse
of what is yet unknown
and forever undiscovered.

c.e.m. 4.28

Finding inner strength is hard
That is to say,
when my eyes are tired
and I'm perpetually bored with everything
that might be the possibility
of some sort of
unforseen progression,

I lose any words
to hold in the moment
with something you might conceed
to understand.

Sand me down with your selfish demands
and gritty hands
after two days past
when you should've cleaned up a bit.

Maybe in late summer
the rag **** will swirl about
and I'll say I have
an allergy headache
and maybe that's why
I'm congested
and mildly depressed
and sure, maybe
that's it
or maybe
it's because of all the cigarettes.

Don't hate me if I don't answer
I've just found something new
to captivate my attention
for the moments when we part.

The tension of what's expected
hangs thick in incense smoke
and anticipation.

I'm migrating into something misplaced
and full of consternation.

C.e.M. August 16, 2015

the chime of a phone call awoke me.
the message was simple.
"don't come today".

The murky sun
peered curiously
past sheered grey

phasing in and out
like a kitchen light on a dimmer
or an oscillating fan.

I rarely taste this version
of morning breath much
anymore.

You say you need a doctor
We'll send a helicopter
Because my love is dry
And I won't even try to save you this time

What's your alibi
Tell me,
will you smile the whole time?
watch me choke down your lies
Cem 7.15

Out of                            touch
Out       of love
      
                   maybe simply
into complacency,

I watch your gaze
-
-
-
falling
past recognition

and I know
It was never your intention

but it's becoming hard
not to mention

If I speak up,
will you listen?

or will you               only hear
the last breaths

of my words
******* up oxygen

like the sound of some
half-hearted     kissing

and I'll wonder                      how
it took                                             so long

to notice
the obviousness

of                            
                                              (something)
missing.

                        I've never been
good at submission.

Cem 12.26.15

The clouds seem to mock the buildings
On days like today,
Flamboyantly drifting across the space
Their grounded counterparts
Don’t have the heart
Nor the stamina
To conceive;
Knowing they will never part
The ground.

Brick and mortar,
They stand
Stagnant in cement;
They believe they have the upper hand.

When capricious skies
Are prone to fickleness,
The buildings stand
Like they do best.

Staring out their window eyes
Story by story
People-watching people
Oblivious to their silent presence
And their
Delicate, intricate scaffolding
For a more pressing interest
In those cloudy skies
And the imaginable possibilities
spawned
By their passing by.


c.e.m. 1.19.15

Stale crackers and
Quivering cigarettes
Held in a hesitant hand
And lonesome lips.
Nothing tastes more of regret
Than the spit on your chin
On your way back
From the bathroom,
Twenty minutes after your knees
Have finished holding down the floor
While the cold wrinkled faces
Of your feet turn up towards
The dull buzzing of the fan.

Your vision is blurred
By the tainted tears
That squeeze out
When the hand over your mouth
Just isn't enough to cover
the cost
Of last nights tab
And the penalty you avoided
By taking a cab back to
Your flat for a short nap
Before your six am shift.

But eleven hours later
And the ding of the elevator outside your door
Jolts you awake-
Seven missed calls mark your mistake
And there's a feeling you can't shake
That this is terribly wrong.

Turn over again
Running miles, still in bed.
You've spent too long
Marinating in your poor decisions
And night after night
You succumb to your vices.
You will make no progress
If you cannot be contrite.
You aren't
Alright.

C.e.M. 3.28.15

I keep thinking
                                 I'm hungry
                                 I'm closer to the curb
                                                      I'm late.

I keep thinking
                                 It should've cost less
                                 This was a waste of gas
                                         I'm gonna head out.

I keep hearing
                          my alarm;
                          Your early morning voice
                        The frosted wind quake above.

I keep thinking
                          I'd have more to say
                          I'd have more change
                        The meters were off by now.

I keep dreaming
                            I'm wandering
                            You appear occasionally
                           I have the antidote to misery.

I keep trying
                      To be
                             poetic
                                Enthusiastic
             ­                             Inspired.

Vonnegut has cursed me
I'm caught in a Timequake
Repeating continuously
My last worst mistake.
This is a tendency
I can't seem to shake and
My dependency
Comes and goes in waves
But for now I'd say

I don't need you.

I keep trying
                 to be logical.
I keep thinking
                 I'm doing alright.
I keep dreaming
                It's true
But I keep hearing
                The opposite from you.



C.e.M. April 24, 2014 first draft

The summer is beginning to
Seep back into my sallow skin
As the crisp night air
Turns warm and fragrant

And the sky
Dirtied with light
Disapates back into
An eerie though
Strangely comforting displacement.

Always temporary,
Change remains scary.
But the uncharted territory
Can't always be complementary
To the days whims and desires.

Weeks may come and go
And I will remain uninspired,
But soon the summer breeze
Will come whispering again
To remind me

Of the tickle of anticipation
When ideas are all I have
And facts have yet to
Set themselves into any certain order

And I don't feel so old
And your body will block the cold
With sandy smirks
And drunken comfort
As we slosh together uncaringly
For a few nights out of the week

And maybe by and by
You'll mean something to me
Or maybe we'll just go with
"We'll see"

But either way you will come again with the summer
And again I'll see
if I can try to be happy.

3.25.15 C.e.M

I am monday morning
come too early
waiting, dirtied from
the weekend;

come to wash off your alter ego
and decisions,
split like the bill
and all those little hairs
that tickle your face
when the wind whispers secrets
too quiet to decipher.

I am an indecisive shiver
of awakening
and the cool tile bathroom
that calls you from sleep
after the second snooze expired.

I am the hot cracking leather
beneath sweating thighs
a thirty minute traffic jam
after a dull day,
radio buzzing and daydreamy.

I am the tension before rest and release,
cool sheets
and sweet sleep.

C.e.M. Aug.24, revised Aug. 29 2015

I've got a hand-held mirror
and an old can of spaghetti-o's
in the back pocket
of the passenger side seat.

I'd call off instead of quitting.
I'd pack my clothes
and my books
first.

I'd miss my quirky
little knick knacks.
I'd bring all my blankets
and a lot of beef jerky.

I'd learn to grow
my own tea.

I'd write letters.
I wouldn't send them.

I'd think of returning
often.

I never would.

You're picking at me
like scabs of my mistakes

Disappointing you
is easy;
and admittedly-
pleasing.

We're careening down the mountain
and you've cut the brakes.

Your medication give you the shakes
and I twitch in my sleep

Your love is cheap
and the wine is sweet
and I awake the next morning
with a migraine from both.

What a gracious host.


I'll try to make ends meet and
you'll half-heartedly sing me to sleep.

We'll do the whole **** thing
again on repeat
week after week.

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

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

How many more beers until the moon looks full again
How many before I've made some friends
Combined, is it enough to make me whole, then?
I’ll keep drinking until I reach a dead end.

How many sips does to take to reach the truth
How many to bridge the distance between me and you.
If I sip long and hard, will it be easier to let loose?
I’ll keep sipping til it’s warm and I'm old news.

How many steps before I find the path I should be on?
How many before I know it’s the right one?
If I keep on stepping, will I find myself on the proper side of the sun?
I suppose I’ll keep stepping along.

How many sleepless hours until I've cracked the code?
How many split the difference between insane, and genius mode.
If I fake it til I make it,  when I've made it, how will I know?
I’ll only be up a few more minutes or so.




C.e.M.

My head is fuzzy-
I can't pull myself out from underneath
the intoxicatingly tiring weight
of my multiple comforters and blankets.
I think of the inside of a koala's ear.
How fuzzy that must be.
That is what I am, yes.
I am nonsense, innocent pink and gaping.
No complex encroaching my perception,
no predelection for the preceeding day.
No bias nor misdirection yet, i am
unwavering as a week of rain
that leaks into two;
heavy grey clouds that won't budge
for longer than a half-hour.
I am a spelling bee and the certainty
before the fall- the letters came out wrong.
I am a churning gut, egging me
towards the "right call"
with the strumming of my moral fibers
or something of that nature.
I am the creeping heat of a humid day
no present danger
just sense of exhaustion;
feeling drained.
I am the pain on the page
and the **** poor decisions
that lead to a scalding shower
trying to smoke out those spur-of-the-moment sins.
I'm alone in your parent's walk-in closet
sobbing behind your father's golf polo's
while you make desserts
for a party full of strangers.
I always hated how you tried
to impress the neighbors.
I am the next day hurt
from a wrestling match that popped up in the
back yard over some hurt feelings
and a misinterpreted meaning.
I am all you know
but won't believe in.

C.e.M. Aug.18,2015

Do you think that you'd need
some sort of apology
When you come to me
While I'm still dreaming?
Do you think this could make
an awkward autopsy
Because I'm too dizzy to be
Agreeing?

Caught on the hook
You played it
right by the book.  
You took your time
And little of mine
and now I'm the one
Left leaving.

And screaming
And trying,
But not really believing
In anything
but a bereaved blessing,
All forgotten and festering
Though unnoticed,
Still attesting
To it's wasteland existence.

Porous, dry and without pigment
Like the skin of an overgrown pigglet

Time for slaughter,
Courtesy of the indignant.
In death too *****
To be a meat worth eating,
Your glory days
Of **** wallowing wonder
were fleeting,

And you knew it from day one
But it wasn't till near seventeen
You began to come undone,
Got a little high strung
And grew a knife for a tongue
Plunged straight into the heart
With snide remarks and whispers
Of text messages
Left off the charts
And I'm left in the dark

To inside jokes
Of feigned friendship
I suppose I'm waiting
For what you forgot to mention.

Yes,
You've always had
good intentions
Just
... no direction
And little discretion
I'm sorry,
I'm sorry...
But I must change direction.

Cem 5.4.15

dozing or writing poetry
always seems so much better than
the alternative
going out-
stale *******
package left open world
spoiled.
Don't cry over spilt milk
don't cry over the bed you made
or this tower you built.
you were in on it.
every over bred chicken
ground and breaded
we rename our stupidity all cutesy.
So if that's the only way I can appeal
to you
the only way you can hear
so you might heal,
then take a chicken nugget of wisdom
and go check out the kitchen.
What are they cooking up?
the putrid toxins of dissention
racism named "culture"
police brutality spelled "justice"
hidden
organized
normalized.
News sources with the
long-standing trust
of the public
but they're slowly becoming
a part of the budget.

Cheap food and the six o'clock news
commercial break for cigarettes and *****
we're spoon fed
and we choose it.
Plastic bred
poison fed
under the guise of choice
and an easier life.
Hard nights
bar fights
at least the taco bell
is open past midnight.

While your brain is soup
eat a little more sludge
and when you're uncomfortable and confused
well,..
I told you to run.

C.e.M. 8.14.15

The floor cared not about the transient presence of my bare, calloused feet upon it, and it returned no hushed squeaks or slaps to the questioning foot-falls of my tired, heavy steps. In fact, the only indicator I had moved about at all were the spattered sand drifts that flaked off my soles slowly with the grinding of my heels in each trip.
A soft, self satisfied whisper came from the edges of my cotton skirt as it dipped down to drink momentarily, the cool insulation of the tile floors grazing its parched lips.
I hadn't had a cigarette in months. hadn't even crossed my mind, truly. Something in the sticky summer air called me to revisit old tendencies, and it was admittedly maddening trying to resist.  I had already done the hard part. That was, going about acquiring the ****** things. I was out of a car due to some irresponsibility and malfeasance on my own part, and the engine blowing on my former transport. Besides, I had no real notion where the nearest filing station was, seeing as this wasn't my city. For a moment, I let the unforeseeable notion sweep me away with it, and tried persuading it to disappear.
It was merely out of chance that on the way home from the beach earlier this evening, our car would be in need of filling up. As he fiddled with the various buttons and nozzles on the marquee, I slipped discretely inside and purchased a  pack of my old favorites. I contemplated lighting one up immediately but suddenly, I felt ashamed for my relent in defense against temptation, and instead tucked them away, un-tampered.
The sun and all of its steaminess had sunken back into the earth, and a cool sea breeze swelled about me and rushed in through the passenger side window to ruffle my hair. I had spent twenty minutes into primping it just right, but it was the end of the night and had decided to give up caring as I edged my head closer to that blustering wind.
Back home again, my fingers found the crisp plastic-lined corners of cardboard stuck in the left side of my clutch and, once again I toyed with the idea of giving in. No use, I had nothing to spark with.  I let the package fall back into its place in exasperation.
I suppose it's better this way.

C.e.M. June 22

I keep waking up
When it's dark
And thinking it's a new day.

But regardless
of the churning minutes
That thicken slowly
on the back burner
Until they've become days and months
I won't feel anything change.

I've got more pennies
Left over from more purchases
Than I ever need make
But I can't spend them-
Not all in one place.

See they're really memories and moments
You say you saw as valueless

Put a hundred in one
And i'm still
Financially powerless.

I'm regressing into lackadaisical
Attempts at metaphor
Writing without a muse
Is such a chore.

So the pain and the deception
Yes I will return for more
Even if door-to-door
We're a hundred miles away.

All or nothing
Never left me with anything.

When we fell off-
I grew happier and
You
lost touch

You told me from the beginning
I should expect as much.

I guess I just thought my touch
Wouldn't make you feel
So cold.

I want to try something new
But I can't fix you-

Or so I'm told.


C.e.M. 12.16.14

picking at the skin
left to wither around a
somewhat fresh
wound,
avoiding eye contact
and your next move.

you don't have the energy
to choose
when moving forward
means you lose.

stay in place
stay obtuse
shell out another
over used excuse.
dropping clues
to your old ruse
for a new muse.

C.e.M. April 25, 2015

You smell like the second night
In a fresh bed of sheets
Soon to be soaked
In a morning sun
That has slipped it's way
In through the window to
Drench you in daylight and responsibility.
You worry what the others will think
But they're downstairs
And a ghost like wind
Will shut your door to hide you from them,
It will caress you and suggest you
Dive back into sleep again
But morning must end  
And you're drawn back
Into the pretend game
That awaits you
On the other side
Of your second day sheets.

C.e.M. 3.21.15

When the month has fizzled out
and the moon
has given you two tries
and you're still stuck on goodbyes

do you even remember your last words?
or were they just for the sake of reply.
I'm wondering why you've even wasted your time.
C.e.M. 7.11.15

It's either too slippery
or too slurred
vision always obscured
when speech can't reach
the right intonation.

It's a gradual gravitation
away from the status quo
that turns stale again
the further you go.
I've never been one to take things slow

no,
never been patient
just defending against
the negativity and
a bitter sensation of defeat.
ah, just a statistic
for my generation.

what a marvelous time to be alive
and wasting away while
you crave something more
than the plague
of lazy days
that keep you flat on your back
in malaise
and die at fourty-five
from being fat
and smoking one pack-a-day
too many.

The truth is heavy
and I guarantee
once we look back on sedintary lives
we'll realize
it is our own
lackluster shells
we despise.

C.e.M. July 15, 2015

The windows are down and the rattling sound of my eardrums at high speeds are drowning out themselves.
It's threatening to rain again.
Ever since the onset of the strawberry moon,
a half mile of persnickety storm clouds seem to be tracking my every move
As I soured inside my stale bedroom.
Gloom and doom seemed to be my only mood,
tattered souls of old ideas blocked from new perspective
the only left to lend a hand.
compassion and wisdom are in high demand
but this current distopia is anything but the
promised land.

Often, when devoid of all the normal worrisome pondering, I evolve to questioning if I will always wander,
wondering who's company I will hold or will hold me next.
I have found it to be that both myself and others have regressed from the best
and with ample stress
we're just searching for the next place to rest.

I dream of heading out west, but I don't see myself being
any less depressed.
Everything is a mess,
I'm attempting to tell myself my chest won't always feel so heavy
if I keep my steps and breathing steady.

When it's time to go, I'm most certainly never ready.
"I'm hiding inside more and more but at least I tried"
is becoming the titletrack to my life.
All I can do anymore is gripe-
It's no wonder I'm alone night after night
unless I employ the poor company
that is sure to haunt me
longer than long enough.

Momma said "I live life hard",
that is to say I've been roughed up enough to make me tough,
but the soft insides of my toes still rub
and I'd say I'm due for a hug.

I can't stay much longer
but I'll take a sip or two of something stronger
and remind myself to
"hold on".



C.e.M. 7.22.15

My synapses are misfiring-
this weight more than gravity.
Depravity’s disastrous grasp,
the exit is not escape.

 Feel the world spinning,
churning on without.
remants, stationed
stagnant and static.

Buzzing in discomfort,
blistering heat
of combustible refuse
left only excuses.

Catatonic catastrophe,
blasphemous bile spews,
purposeless penitent sentiments,
drowning logic in mental mishap.

An exploding star,
Separating fuselage,
limbs detach from frame
Splintering out into space.

When you're skating by on unpaid debts
having grown to the point of
potential arrests...

Can I get a witness
to get me out of this?

or maybe just someone
to do the dishes
while I'm away.
I've used up my energy
and all
one million wishes.
I spent them all on things
I'll soon need to fix

until soon rots into now
and I'm still in the house
maybe tomorrow I'll have
the energy to get out and about.

Quiet as a mouse
If I eventually arrive
tatty and scrambling
wrinkled blouse and a half-assed lie
that wasn't worth trying to say

one way or another
I need you to show me the way
but you've already turned to leave
while I'm
still trying to find me feet.
It's too late again.

C.e.M.
Write date, June 2, Edit Date, Aug 11

The groceries and the rent
I 've already spent
what was meant to be my savings

trying to save me
from rockabye baby
to the grave because lately

I feel a little less stately
and a little more disheveled.

I might ask you to embellish,
forgive me
maybe I'm just nosey

or prone to misunderstand closeness
to a speculative humanity.
Can we truly interact spiritually?

Or is it less empirical than it seems
and we're just vibrating in our own
                                               paradigm
             template
                                 dreams
we weave our own gods eye
to see things.
Everything.

Human beings or
human doings?
Lately I've been toggling through

between the two
in indecisiveness.

"Ah, give it a rest"
Chides one side of my mind

In return comes the gruff reply
"It is what it is, isn't it
           and it's what I do best".

C.e.M 8.14.15
edited 1-24-2016

I'll smoke cigarette, I've thought countless times what it does to me.
I'll down another glass of wine. It's good for the heart, so they say.
I'll laze around 'till three pm. My excuse isn't worth hearing.
I'll dream of  ways I could never be. Should I be less daring?


c.e.m September 13, 2015

sometimes
I just feel stuck.
I couldn't tell you how,
or by what.
There is simply this
perplexing mass of
displacement
weighing on my mind
in aggravation.

It feels eerily like stagnation
and impatience
but I have no current task
I am evading.

I am just....
waiting.

it is excruciating.

C.e.M. September 12, 2015

There she  lies
Wide awake in this cellar of her  nightmares;
A prison army camp
Stamps it's boots across her
Charcoal heart;
It's remnants will be spread across
Many eras. Smudged mascara
And a sallow face
She will replace you
Because she was trained to.

Cem 420a 11015

You're not hiding anything tangible
Just secrets, building,
Mortar for this wall behind your mandible.
You view your vocal chords
As a noose
Stretched too loose,
And you swing free
At the base of minor key
Haunting melody that repeats
While jarring words behind your jaw
You will never speak
Pile higher
Higher higher
Until we drift asleep.
Cem dec.18,2015

Oil in the ocean
she is the insinuation
of a poison
both intoxicating
and breath taking
though, without mistake
she is devilishly volatile.
speech becomes slurred and spaced
and her intentions become displaced
as she falls from grace
night after night
this is her fight-
she never stops to question
she might be on the wrong side.

C.e.M. June 14

I was going to write
of infatuation.
instead,
I wrote of death.
I seem to be hovering
forever in between,
a partial combination
a fickle being.

I was going to write
how his eyes glint
when I catch them
unexpectedly peering at me.
Now, I can only imagine
the endlessness of eternity
leering at me evilly
Taunting  my carelessness.

I was going to reminisce
small jokes that soothe anxiousness.
Now, consumed
by the inevitable
sweeping me away into nothingness.

I was going to question
“does he dream of me as I do?”
Now I wonder
what my dreams will dissolve into.
Fleeting moments pass rapidly
Gaseous, unaccounted for and ghastly.

2/2/2017

You're a good distraction-
like the channel without infomercials
at 2am.

During the day
you haven't time for me
and I'll waste away

and no one will ask about us.

I suppose
This is what ****** addicts
And psychotics feel like.
White walls
And overflowing ash trays, long
Drags and sloppy kisses
Open shirts and
Undone belts;
Their eighteenth year spinning
Records of commentary
Nostalgia before you got sick from
The speed
Uninteresting to everyone else
Inescapable to you.
Slaughtered morals
***** socks on the sidewalk
If something honest
Inside me could talk I'd say
I never want to feel another questioning palm again against my prickled skin.
Ten days until escape?
Or is it back to the cage?
Who's to say.

C.e.M. 6. 9. 15

and then all of a sudden
you meet someone
who shuts your mouth and
opens your eyes
and you just lay there on your side
and smile the dopiest smile.

you feel like singing and
screaming and perhaps
like you might explode
if the radiation
from the insides of his mind
that slices you from
six inches away
continues for much longer.

and if you do?
it won’t matter
because he will scoop you up
and kiss your pieces-
barely even noticing that
you are broken and

when he leaves
it is always
too soon

and the sheets smell like
the sweat after a long day
and you love it in all of its honesty
and the hard work that it eludes to.

His hands feel warm on your skin
even when they are too cold
and you have rolled
away with the quilt once again.

He’s respectful
and he’s got a big goofy laugh
that comes
from the recognition of a lingering sorrow
he is still
unwilling to share.

He will leave you
more tangled than your hair
in the morning
after it has spun itself
across the static surface
of sheets and skin.

He’s letting himself in and
you dream of him
even when he is beside you.

Your thoughts never tire
of retracing the steps you took together
and you will walk down familiar trails
hour by hour
when you mind needs a rest.

He is quite possibly the best,

the best


The best.

and you'll get to the rest.


c.e.m. 11.24.14

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