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

If I listed out all of the things that have
Tripped me up
And troubled me
Truly my dear
You would never stop pitying me.

Take me backwards around that stop sign I split

My legs churn counter clockwise
To the backyard as kids

But I can't find a moment that will fit
The description
Of the happiness I sought as a prescription
And over took my kind
As an addiction.

I have to find the exact formula
To improvement
Because I can't keep living
In this whirlwind disaster
That has only begun to spin faster.

I have fallen into a
Petrifying and paralyzingly vortex;
The consumation of my years spindling around me.

I am wound in
Sloppy rings,
Sticky with sap and
Last nights spilt wine.

I've grown into where I  will remain now,
Regardless of personal preference.
Mostly I can settle for my comfortable domain
Of limited know-how;
But when my tongue trips
And my knees scrape on
Every protruding corner

I will remember
I am only living,

Hidden behind callouses
Of all those spitfire falacies
I was gullible enough to perceive.  

my bark has turned more
Into a disapproving grumble
When another inevitable wave
Comes to throw me under
In the tides of my troubles.

Perhaps I've grown accustomed
To the briney water rushing towards my ankles
And the gust that carries cold droplets
Across my hot, red face.

Let us jealously applaud
For those who trod on
Our aspirations,
And smile coyly knowing
We didn't let their
Questioning faces
Phase us.  

"****.
I grew up."
I wish I didn't say that so much.

At twelve I was twenty-five and
At twenty-five?
Well,
We'll get to that
if we can.

Regardless
I know that nothing's going to give me back  

Here,

now,  

              My short time.       with
you.

Deep breaths only multiply the weight
Of the question that's lingering in my chest.
I rise,
Against the counteractive distraction
Of avoidance.

I hear the words come out in short blurbs like a stop motion cartoon,

"So...excuse me mister,
there's uh,
something I've got to do."

I'm stumbling up to your room
And betting
On the mood
And the moon.

C.e.M.

I hear my last words
lose themselves
hanging from the precipice
of a precise demise.

Looking for nectar,
I pick at thorns and scabs
you name your regrettable yesterdays
though I won’t find any syrup
In your horseradish skull.

Tuesday’s malaise will spread
across the week turning sour and heavy.
Summer to fall I thought I had it solved.
Fall to winter,
I know nothing at all.



12.13.14. Cem copyrighted
edited 6.15.16

It’s the kind of subtle trickle
That turns the asphalt into a glassy mirror
Ripples, ripples, ripples
Over it like a black pond
The silver lining of each little droplet
Streaking the sky with shades of gray
The streetlights cast an amber glow
Upon the shimmering mist
Hiss, hiss, hiss
Against your stinging flesh
Turn your face up towards the darkened sky
Let the rainfall and streetlights wash away the dust
The dust of the souls you carry on your lips and cheeks
Etched into your back and palms
Their burdens may cause you aches and pains
Let the rainfall and streetlights wash them away
Rainfall and streetlights
Rainfall and streetlights
An urban confessional
Where the sky leans in to listen
As every perfect drop of water hits your skin
It’s the sound of a cleansing
Only you can comprehend
And although the hope of purity may have been swept away
by the wind of unfixable mistakes
It’s still the belief alone in possible redemption
That keeps you from relenting to temptation
Drink up the tears of the sky, child
You are forgiven
You were always forgiven
After all
Paths were made to be strayed from
Straight lines are mundane, they all look the same
And never give a little boy glass when you haven’t taught him
how to grasp what’s right in front of him
When he drops it
It’s a dangerous job
Picking up the sharp shattered pieces
Do not make him do it all alone
Yes, inevitably you will cut yourself
On the broken shards
Crimson teardrops
If they tumble from you
Do not distrust your calluses
You made them through your own hard work and suffering
But they can only do so much for you
Remember your skin is a shell not impenetrable armor
So it’s best to avoid the things you know will cut unnecessarily deep
Bleeding is just another way your body assures you that your heart is still beating
Looking up from the gutter the universe awaits you child
Do you not realize what’s at your fingertips?
Infinity
So don’t give in just yet
Let the rainfall and streetlights heal you
Drip drop, drip drop
Let them bathe you in warmth
Radiating
Let the rainfall and streetlights take you away
To a better place
Wherever that may be

There is wet sand in my veins
and I’ve never seen the ocean-
but I thought I saw it in your eyes.
Maybe I was only trying to find
the salt water
to help me float.
You were silken yet solid, a work of art
I felt I did not deserve.
Yet under every glistening
oceans’ waves
swims monsters and demons
we cannot see
or the pressure will crush us.
I am a cyclone
twisting in every direction:
dizzy, destructive, and dying.
But I am still. Too still.
Calm before the storm.
Calm before the storm.
If this is calm, god please
let me dissolve…

Branches twisting in my head, stiff with frozen dew
-Things I maybe should have said and words I thought were true.
Branches crowding all the rooms it's hard to find my way
We fell apart like fallen leaves in autumns cool decay.
These trees were once like works of art that hung upon our wall
until the frames all fell apart - we both just let them fall.
And what was left were skeletons of what was once serene
I thought that I could love - but tell me, what does that word mean?

I'm trapped.
Trapped like a rat.
And he is the house cat.
We live in New York,
which is to say,
we live in chaos.
We like to dream big,
but we don't follow through.
Afterall, a cat will attack a rat because it's a rat.
The way of our world.
A beautiful hurricane of a vicious cycle.
When it rains,
it pours.
You and I are a perfect example of no pain, no gain
but the gain is really so miniscule that this game,
Mr. Cat,
seems like there is truly no glory in winning.
A rat can try to run from a cat, and very few escape.
If I could evade the cat and leave New York...
I have the time to contemplate...
Could there be a better existence in which I am a) not being chased, attacked, or trapped by a cat, and b) free of the noise and chaos of New York?
I have been in this corner for awhile now.
His patience is everlasting.
He guards the safest escape route.
Cat's are smart.
There is, however, a crack in the wall.
But it would be a tremendous fall.
A chance, perhaps, this rat could scale the brick wall of the apartment building,
down 10 floors to the alley and scurry scurry scurry far far far away.
Wait.
He is...retreating?
Is this a trick?
No, it seems I've bored this tired, old house cat!
This is my chance to leave, lickety-split
out through the hole behind the welcome mat,
that rests against the south wall.
I peak my head out of the crevice -
there seems to be no cat.
I run. Scurry scurry scurry.
Hurry hurry hurry.
Too late. It was a smarter trap.
Retreat! Retreat!
His teeth sink into my hind leg.
I squeak, I thrash. I poke him in the eyes with my sharp nails.
He releases me and I hobble scurry to the crack.
The cat is attacking the wall.
Furious.
Next time, he won't allow me to fight back.
There is no point in staying here, afterall.
I will take my chances on the wall.
Out the hole, brick edge by brick edge I cling and claw my way down.
....
I made it.
...this is a free rat.
There is no cat.
There is still noise, anger, people everywhere;
shouting.
This is not where this rat wants to be, either.
Out of New York.
That's what is desired.
The cat has left me with wounds,
and memories of torture.
I will go, and heal, over many of moons,
and find peace in my future.
Run and run and free free free.
So it wants, so it has done, so it will be.