Loneliness.
What is it?
It is a concept we so rarely describe in detail.
We've made up a specific word for it-
Three little syllables-
Just so that we can say it and be done with it,
And escape the contemplation.
But I know my own loneliness cannot be captured,
Cannot be encompassed,
By merely the word.
What is loneliness?
It comes in all shapes and sizes,
A space,
A lack,
That can be big or small,
Sudden or excruciatingly slow,
Sharp or fuzzy at the edges.
Hell,
It can even be comforting.
What is it about loneliness that is so insidious?
Harder to rid yourself of than fear
Or anger
Or even such tricky, barbed things as doubt
Or hope,
That stick.
Loneliness doesn't stick.
It seeps.
Steeps.
You stew in it.
It is beginning to occur to me that I don't believe,
Once one realizes loneliness for the first time,
That one is ever truly rid of it again,
Even for a second.
I think it is a permanence that we as a race refuse to acknowledge most of the time.
Some forms of lonely are fairly benign-
The little tingle on the edges of you, when you are home alone and the house is silent,
And for no apparent reason at all-
No sadness, no fear, no thought that is particularly unpleasant that you must drown out-
You nonetheless feel the compulsion to switch on the television
Even if you won't watch,
Just to break the stillness with a human voice besides your own.
Then there are the darker types, the truly ensnaring ones,
The lonelinesses born of the memory of times when,
Perhaps, you were less lonely,
Or even thought that you had flushed the feeling from your soul entirely.
Loneliness is an otherness,
An alien thing that lives in your heart,
That makes you question whether there is anyone out there who would have you
If they knew
What was on the inside.
There is the type of loneliness that creeps up on you and follows nipping at your heels like a shadow on the pavement as you move through your day,
Reminding you, whispering in your ear that here you felt less alone, and there, and that those places are full now,
Of emptiness,
Because those times have passed and not had the courtesy to clean up their cobwebs-
Memories linger in certain little spots, and collect like dust little pockets of loneliness that grab you all of a sudden,
The way forgotten spiderwebs stick in your hair as you move through an old house.
This type is jarring, disturbing, and
Afterwards I always feel the desperate need to wash away the feeling,
Scrub myself down.
There is the breed of loneliness that is a bit more genteel,
And curls cold at your feet like a well trained dog,
Formal and subtle, but constant,
Watching.
This is the sort that makes you feel just somewhat hunted,
When you try to sit in silence by a fire at night in your living room
And find that you must read a book to drive the stillness from your head.
There is the truly hollow kind,
The kind that has no courtesy whatsoever,
And actually slithers into you, inhabiting your heart and stomach and bones
As you try to fall asleep
With ice.
It is this kind that, if it is strong enough
(and you are weak enough)
For it to remain until morning
Forbids even the smallest human touch-
Every gesture of tenderness from another person
Makes this loneliness increase,
Every embrace, every handshake, every accidental contact of skin
Becomes unbearable,
And the afflicted shies away,
Perpetuating a cycle of vicious disconnection.
They all leave a little something cold, even when they recede,
In the core of you, that won't be dislodged no matter what you try.
Loneliness,
Like a cancer,
Can only be considered in remission,
And never truly cured.
For when given room to prosper even for the space of a second it expands and swallows up your thoughts
Until they whither with frostbite.
I suppose I shouldn't be shocked-
As humans we live side by side, arms linked with
Most of the things that will eventually **** us,
What's one more, cozying up inside our skulls,
Inside our hearts?
We have a partnership-
An entirely human concept-
With all that destroys us.
And so we live with out loneliness, like a second shadow.
What is loneliness?
I am still unsure.
I can only describe what loneliness does,
Not what it is.
*I think that maybe to understand it
Would be to die of it.

~for Wendy ~

with my almost two years old poetry advisor,
who loves her Sunday rituals, an extra sabbath,
of waffles and Shrek, kid’s gym and artistic endeavors,
cozying up with Nana and siblings in a big old bed,
snacking and chewing on the good silk sheets

as always, she and and I go off to have an intellectual conversation,
letting the older ones to do kid stuff, while we converse and debate
topics of nature vs. nurture, the weather vs. climate change,
and the future of everything, unbeknownst to everyone else

which is greater, love or honor, she inquires,
sensing my thoughts are preoccupied with matters of honor...
as she strokes my itchy, scratchy day old face,
insuring her having my full attention, while
taking advantage of my loving weakness

grandpa:
honor over everything my opening gambit,
while she coyly harrumphs in response,
one can love without reason for such are
our natural souls programmed,
but honor needs concentration and contemplation,
and if done right,
then love will surely follow!

She-Woman:
ah ha! once again you sidle up to nurture,
cause love is too inexplicable,
old man, old man, did I not love you before
any season of reason crossed my brow,
and my vocabulary consisted of just
more, no, toy and hungry

what did I know of Aristotle, logic, codes of conduct,
the definition of honor yet abstract,
while love is nature’s illogical construct,
coming first without restrictions,
while honor is malleable and
property of the eye of the beholder

grandpa:
wise beyond your tears, you are, and unquestionably correct,
but while coming first, love cannot last,
until cover-coated with honor,
for honor gives us the because, and locks down the why,
honor gives the insight, the rationale, the rules of how to say
yes and no, when love is tendered and an R.S.V.P. is requested

She-Woman:
absent experience, for now will concede,
but be warned this is not over,
fo you have not brought me a definition of what truly honor be

grandpa:
honor is the housing of love, and though you granted me your favor,
comes the day that you will demand proofs that
what was unearthed & unearned
is now earned, a course in credit, a baccalaureate in life’s lanes,
when to heed them, when to crossover, when to say I do, I do,
no to someone else alone, and yes to your honorable self

She-Woman:
adult double speak, I suspect, and you will rue the day
when forced to concede, with a wrenched
‘child, I do not know,’
meanwhile change my diaper
after I karate chop your knee

Grandpa:
yes child, but know,  two of your requests/notifications are
honorable acts and/know real love can be ONLY be exchanged
tween honorable humans

Keep doing what you're doing
you sower,
oh, how you sow.
You play others
as if they are fools,
injecting them
to steal their money,
cozying up to drain sweet love.
You drop balloons & break hearts.
Think that's funny?
Well, I'm God & I'm really ******.
I will reap,
soon sower.

Entry 1# I'm not suicidal am I?

This city reeks. I love it and I hate it.

Sat by the window. Light fazing out like a lonesome child defeating homeward in twilight walks after a long winded winter day of school. Hard breath, red cheeks, cold icy hands. Yes.. it's like that scene, the cloudy glow of a hidden sun is sinking over the edge and I sit in this partial darkness, able to see but losing visibilty as day turns to night.

Drizzling rain.
I watch the orange alleyway flicker, from my ghetto townhouse window I can hear an ambulence wailing in the distance, can hear cars, and can even hear and taste the wet, cement grit.

I can feel the old spirits, the dusted away spirits settling back in.
I miss that laughter. Remember when we played hide n go seek while adults sipped wine on hardwood floors and ate expensive cheeses. We, like circus performers waving to the adoring public with a seal balancing a ball upon his nose as we showed off your golden retreiver spiffed up in the outfit we had picked for him.

Remember how we danced in play, imagination and all, until the last possible moments. Until it was time to go home again, my parents at the door and you and I hiding under your bed.

Its one of those nights again, the long rainy screechy kind,only your dead and the garbage pile outside my house stinks extra hard.

Cozying up to the window, I am a cat, a fat grey house cat who spends the hours water eyed listening to specks of gods droplets tinkling upon leaves. Its good to be home, to be blanketed in a cuccoon of comfort. Of familiarity.

Scraggly memories crawling from behind my ear I hear the rangly cuckas of the jungle and its ancient misty spirit. I miss its danger and exotic excitement. I miss my smile, the genuine one.

I put my things away so I could sit and write in peace, placed my guitar in the corner where it belongs, and hid my now empty backpackers backpack under the bed. I don't want to see it, my spirits greater than my mentality.
Like air, like wind, I'll sweep away, I'll run for hours just so I can feel that high. I'm not grounded, maybe I have issues.

So then I sat in frustration listening to the rain, its like an annoying tap. Creativity gone.

Pulled my mess back out of the box and scattered it everywhere. You know when your young, when your a child and you just kind of do things?

I thought back to when I was little, to the moments of my greatest joys.
It was always when I was at the top of a tree, at the peaks of death, or when I was running, running away from the world my conciousness was born into,
  it was when I jumped out the window and got the ministry phoned on us. Although the latter one wasn't a joy, more so an annoyance on my freedom and a burden to my family.

I could spend hours staring out this window at night, I did it once too. My first all nighter at the age of 5, when I simply had to see each snowflake fall. And then it was sunrise and the neighborhood was pure white.

I miss my mom, shes still here but not as young. I miss spirit, I miss soul, I'm getting older but am I wiser? I think I was smarter when I was little. When I would run for freedom, when I would pit up a fight. Not submissevly recline to my other side as to ward off any inner resistance.

Now that my ***** scattered all over the room I find it easier to write. At least thats something I've always known, everything has a home. My guitar is happy on my bed and I've always been happier on the edge of a cliff, flying high with my heart in the heavens and my head in a cloud. Just waiting to jump.

..
..........jump.

Oh the misery of an air spirit.

I (Reverie)

Thisbe senses diamonds in the dusk/
Turner protects himself with cozying ash created from the minerals of adoration

The street is a hundred constant cinders
Communicating with mystic language
Repeating itself

While the newsstation weeps
And front yards hold their damp cheeks
Cherishing the child who is now gone

The envisioned tower, embarassed with its Windows n lack of decorations/
Not even the cobwebs will settle in vicinity!

A paranoid Sculpter cant sleep and so takes to Spanish poetry

"You're giving out your tarot cards to
Yusuf what will he do with them!"

A mother says to her child who
Incidentally goes blind in that exact moment

An epitaph for the ashtray sitting precariously on the stainglass table on the porch where an
Empress seeks shelter
Carving at her senses with
Violent monologues about religion
Courtesy her friend

(A stranger to risk,
Some tired dull balloon rises up within her consciousness going higher and higher!)

II (December in Moods)

Mauve temporarily fills the room
Your soft breathing brings an elation
To the dresser at the foot of your bed
I can't rest here beside you
I want to kiss you
And your sleep

The discontent arrives
In shrouded form
You resign yourself to the kitchen watching logging trucks forever heave around the bend of forestry
Threatened with the possibility that they'll lose balance and collide with the house

I visit during Holidays with marigolds and fantasies of Asia
& with sweetness on verge
of imancipation
You kiss my face
attempting composure
As the radio promises
That this Winter will be especially
Frigid.

I apologize for my arrogance!
In losing friends, betraying my past beliefs for
White wine & phenomenology

You recite a foreign anthem with whispers, curious of the mathematics of romance.
Questioning yourself but especially yourself in relation to me.

III (Josephine, Burial)

In contemplation
A dog listens to nearby whistling
Of a young girl home from school/
In six months she'll fall victim to the divorce of her family/
And in twelve months
Accept that her mother had a lot of problems
It isn't her fault
It was never her fault/

In sixteen months she'll chip her front teeth on the coffee table

In three years she'll decide on a better first name
"Josephine"
In four she will legally change it and

In five the previously mentioned dog will be buried
With his owner's favorite scarf

IV (2015)

The August heat causing distant roads to waver in illusion while
A home catches fire

Luckily not my own

I save my mind one night before it loses itself to pure imaginative flow
In midsts of 108 repititions of the Gayatri Mantra
I remember that!
The portrait of a french woman robed in sunset colors is taken off the rotting walls of a Cabin, auburn with evening rain.

Silence!

V (The rosebush blushes while being painted)

Yggdrasil is being renovated a few blocks away & a garden is unable to answer
For its
Unusual poetics

The local raincoat impressionist observes
A fantasy hidden in the soil
Nurturing itself
With percieved
Infant curiosity

I met him at his house,
stuck the check in my bag,
so many zeroes.
“Large price to pay,”
said his wife, arms crossed,
not liking the idea
of giving a younger woman money
to go deep inside her husband’s body.

I sunk into the old man
as though he was a post-work bath,
and the pain rose off his surface in steam-like tendrils.
I stretched and widened
to completely fill the shell of his large frame,
and after a few seconds of adjustment,
twisted a clumsy hand
to test my motor control.
I slunk out of his rocking chair,
and tripped over his legs as I tried to walk,
plummeting face down
into cat-haired carpet.

The wife
was giving me the stink eye.
“Arthur?” she asked, stupidly.
I shook my head.
Meanwhile, my body blinked awake from the couch
and was overtaken by a large smile,
Arthur’s blissful grin looking
peculiar on my lips.
The old man,
inhabiting my body,
reached out a hand to glide against
his wife’s mechanically smooth arm:
“Come here,” he requested.
She made a face, said she’d be back
when we were done, and left.

Now it was just me and him,
or him and me,
depending on how you look at it.
We laid down on his bed together:
me because i’d become suddenly exhausted,
and Arthur to take
his first real rest in a while.

No matter how I adjusted the pillow,
My wrinkled head throbbed.

We tried to play cards,
but Arthur’s hands shook in a way
I was not used to
so we had to stop.
He kept thanking me over
and over and over and over as i replied:
it’s my job,
no problem,
it’s my job, no problem,
and rubbed away the aches
in my temporary legs.

When the session was over
he bolted out the door.
I couldn’t move without hurting,
but I didn’t need to chase him:
I called him and told him
if he didn’t bring my body back
I would steal his credit card
and his wife.
“Bodies are places to visit
but you can’t vacation forever,” I said.
When he returned he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“I’m not really a thief,” he let me know.
“Okay,”
I said, skeptical,
putting my hand on my own shoulder
and cozying back into my body,
which was a little stretched out.

I could feel him watch me leave
in excruciating jealousy.

~


Wood grain suspenders on beams of unattractive thought
grasp paper cups holding the morning’s coffee just outside of
smudged glass reflecting off of these prison walls
in the heart of the shopping district,
where everything is on sale
and yet nothing is to be sold

as shoppers take advantage of nap time…and still I sit

Clinging to every hope a mind can cling to,
shadowed by my beliefs that it doesn’t matter when
grays pull years out of youthful smiles wearing ties,
for no good reason and
wasted breaths fall from hapless dreams caving in on the summit
where asphalt spills and curb side deliveries melt

rolling down the window to nothing…and still I sit

Limestone pillars stand guard in fours,
Cozying up to attached railings painted to match, but don’t where
empty tissue boxes wear a gaping mouth of perforated edges,
yawning with all of the enthusiasm of an Japanese translator
at a Metallica concert trying to sing opera in verses…
Collected but unseen or spoken of in black and white words

flickering and waiting a review…and still I sit
  
Poetry gathers in corners like food crumbs beneath the fridge,
hidden in the dark until the tile floor is replaced as
small piles of words are sifted through but not taken
for the sunlight changes everything
and this is not as cloudy a day as was forecasted,
though the gloom still exists

scribbling non-stop while leaving… and still I sit

“I could if I wanted, you know?”
I pirouetted
Full tilt
The room on its axis
Spinning quickly

Wound up
Unwound top
Rhythmically synchronized
With my clenched gut

Transfixed as
You—
Who had traced the edges
Of me
Mapped me
Committed to memory –
Morphed quickly
Became unrecognizable

Your identity
Faded
An old photograph
Outlined and defined
You frame everything I am

Who once was a beacon
Is now a shadow cast
The coldest glance
A knife kissing
Cozying against my skin

Alive, you still haunt me
A shamble of what I thought
A ghost of a man
I’m
Creased
From your tricky hands

NO*
Ringing gunshot
Swimming through your ears
Tell me, please,
That’s why you couldn’t hear
I am just a trail of smoke
Dissipating now

An ember
When I once was a blaze
Smothered by  uninvited embrace
I am fragmented
But they say
Every phoenix
Rises from ash

i asked a friend,
who had been there a few times before,
what was it like.

he told me,
like everywhere you will ever go
it has its ups and downs.

summer there, of course, is the best.
unabashed, careless frolicking
days at the beach and sipping ****** beer.

but winter, too, is beautiful,
cozying next to a warm fire
with whiskey and hot mug of cocoa.

the road there is bumpy
but once you get there it's mostly smooth sailing.
'cept for that rough patch in the middle of the town.

finally I asked him,
how do I know when I'm there?

and he let out a sigh that lasted a little too long,
and he looked me dead in the eye,
and he said,
     when it's gone.

Autumn has a way
Of slowly creeping in
Though summer days
Are far from being over.
There is that turning point
Wearing a jacket off season
Cozying up around the fire
When the sky has become so low.
Seasons are already changing
Not ever having set a date
It is a dawdling process
But no one wishes to notice.
               What a strange sensation
Like opening a door
That was never really closed
The beginning of something
That should not have even started again.

I just want to hold your hand
and walk among the tall grasses and weeds
to that place that you took me before
while the wind blows up against our bodies
and we breathe and step forward in unison

The tall grasses swishing, brushing against our legs
activity of those around us humming in the background
children laughing in the pool,
birds calling to each other in the air,
the sloshing of the water against the embankment

And I look to you and all I see are those sea green eyes
Crystal blue on some days, mossy green the next
And I lose myself,
melting in those dazzling pearls of intimacy
When you look at me with them,
it feels like you see into my soul
knowing every part of me all at once

Then I look away, blushing
because your gaze is so penetrating
that I have no way to respond
without seeming foolish
because you have struck me speechless

All my feelings for you reflected
in the red glow of my cheeks,
I cannot hide from your gaze.
No. Not from you.

As you pull me on, hand in tow,
I feel like I could float like this forever
suspended in time and space,
the world outside melting away
as we dance without music

Your smile embedding itself onto my face
cozying up for a long stay,
my face starts to ache from the muscles of my mouth
not being able to relax,
but I cannot stop smiling

As you clear the ground
I watch you carefully brush away
possible bumps and uncomfortable seats
and motion for me to sit next to you
on the spot of ground you have cleared for me

I plop myself down serenely
My body folding into yours,
your arm wrapped around my shoulder
My head resting on your chest

Peaceful dreams come over me
and as we harmonize
the water becomes a bay
and the spot we have taken up becomes the dock
and as we sit upon the dock of the bay,
we watch the small ripples,
assuming they have a tide,
roll away into one another.

We sit on the dock of the bay
and waste time

A strange man in my boyfriend’s pub approached and chose to name me Satan.

Pitcher gripped, he leaned on our booth’s edge for stability sense,
radiating the kind of confidence that ignites forests with rage-inspired violence.
He practically whipped a ruler out between our plates to show us he could.

“Who do you ladies know here?” he beamed.

And unbecoming words scratched at my throat,
tempted to trickle out amidst the limited air space between his face and my fist,
he made eyes at the best friend of “Satan.”

“I don’t care what she thinks of me, only you,” he added as if he’d impress.

I smiled with glaring irises that left no secrets
and with his Bud Light psychology degree,
he verbally diagnosed me with multiple personalities.

“You’ve got this soft cute angel-like exterior, but…”

We didn’t bother listening for his name, but questioned his choice for mine.
And his response warranted the bad taste his presence gave the air.

“…but behind closed doors I’m sure it’s some 50 shades of gray ****…”

Our jaws forgot their places as disgusted awe entered our eyes.
He continued.

“You like it rough and ***** with whips and toys and…”

Satan’s best friend could only tolerate this misogynistic man for so long,
she answered his initial question with warranted glare,

“Her boyfriend owns the place.”

His head cocked with such quick motion,
I feared the devilish smile that painted his face red.

“Alexis?!”

“Alex.”  I retorted.

“Oh man!  This is going to be fun,” he cackled rusty nails up his throat,
unrequitedly cozying himself up next to me.

His arm wrapped my shoulder like a belt around my neck, as I struggled to hug the wall.

Shouting his interpretation of Alex’s name toward the kitchen,
a confused face peered from around the ovens and made its way to our booth.

Words left the uncensored man’s mouth and Alex immediately followed suit back to his work,
I couldn’t blame him.

I wanted to slip through the cracks of the body-wall-booth box I’d been trapped in.

I felt trapped in his quicksand sea of word *****

the word “******” fell from his mouth like glass shards to the womb, it’s hard to stomach him.

I wanted to hold the hand of the young boy with Down syndrome in the booth behind me
and tell him he’s worth so much more than the searing air this man fire-breathes into his ears.

I wanted to tell him I’d defend his value in a fist fight to end the word without second thought,
That he could defend himself and I didn’t doubt that.

I wanted to tell him, the man is only lucky he’s a patron who spends so much he’s nearly always cut off,
but that I find greater value in people than money, and he’s worth all the oceans over a single grain of sand,
that he shouldn’t let him make him feel like anything less,
and I wouldn’t either.

~


Wood grain suspenders on beams of unattractive thought
grasp paper cups holding the morning’s coffee just outside of
smudged glass reflecting off of these prison walls
in the heart of the shopping district,
where everything is on sale
and yet nothing is to be sold

as shoppers take advantage of nap time…and still I sit

Clinging to every hope a mind can cling to,
shadowed by my beliefs that it doesn’t matter when
grays pull years out of youthful smiles wearing ties,
for no good reason and
wasted breaths fall from hapless dreams caving in on the summit
where asphalt spills and curb side deliveries melt

rolling down the window to nothing…and still I sit

Limestone pillars stand guard in fours,
Cozying up to attached railings painted to match, but don’t where
empty tissue boxes wear a gaping mouth of perforated edges,
yawning with all of the enthusiasm of an Japanese translator
at a Metallica concert trying to sing opera in verses…
Collected but unseen or spoken of in black and white words

flickering and waiting a review…and still I sit
  
Poetry gathers in corners like food crumbs beneath the fridge,
hidden in the dark until the tile floor is replaced as
small piles of words are sifted through but not taken
for the sunlight changes everything
and this is not as cloudy a day as was forecasted,
though the gloom still exists

scribbling non-stop while leaving… and still I sit

on a cold brisk day
following the agonization of my mind
you asked me something quite unforgettable
what brings you joy during your dark days?
i believe my answer was
you see its a mixed assortment of
    any flavor of adventure
    plane rides to tropical cities
    road trips to unacknowledged towns
    blasting classic 80’s jukebox tunes
    tears for fears / queen / violent femmes
    dancing in parking lots with my friends
    quaint and unknown coffee shops
    driving past state line after state line
    autumn blazes lighting up the view
    a warm cup of vanilla chamomile tea
    cozying up near a fire
    to unthaw my frosted nose
    my family’s classic movie marathons
    popcorn popping in the background
    while we soak in the glory of
    star wars / james bond /
    mission impossible
    oh the list goes on and on
    you know that
all these beautiful distractions
remind me of the grateful mind
you should possess
for the small blessings
everywhere
step out of the chaos of your mind
appreciate everyday ordinariness
affix yourself in the glory
of the little things in life
i overcame my dark days
in the light of the plainness
of everyday life
plainness shines so brightly
can you see it?

What I d remember of you
When I leave this place
Is of us exploring the foggy city in the early mornings
Is of us cozying at night infront of your fire place
Playing a deck of cards
Drinking beer with our friends
Of the love that we thought we had
Of the loss we thought we d incurred
Of the emotions vested
Of the coffee beans roasted
You and I posing for the picture
We printed on the mugs as memorabilias for the future
of your unibrow I was  once so fascinated with
of my life stories you dismissed as a simple myth
of the taste of your lips
the warmth of your coffee breath
the sharpness of your nose
of the moments we chose
of the takeout menus lying on the floor
of the house, the water and the shore
I am carrying the love with me
The memories and the shared spaces
I would try to move on without you
Without your kisses and warm embraces
Release myself from the shambles of your love
And move on to getting caged by your memories
Keep ruling me my love
For without you I am lost of my many identities.

cabin fever--

snowed out labyrinths

reconfiguring, think:

The Shining.

Santa's trailing laughter.

the orange arms of a

fireplace giving and receiving...

as one cozying up to themself.

with periodic cold drafts breathing

on deeds done.

that which secludes to find...

chestnuts roasting from within, smoke

offerings.

I haven’t hit home yet but least I’ve got a roof over my head
Food on the table
Clothes on my back
But it’s nothing like the days I’ve spent with you
The good days- even if there was only a few of them
Working beside you during the day and cozying up against at you night
The pleasure of waking up next you every morning and coming home to quality time, kissing and caressing
No I still haven’t forgotten
Yes I am away from you but I have no peace of mind
My appetite dies as I wonder if you have still eaten
My days turn grey even when the sun smiles down at me
My sleep fades away when I find myself thinking about you at the middle of the night
My skin goes cold when I remember the feel of your embrace
And my eyes flow with the tears that have never been shed
For all the days spent on our bitter fights
Time wasted on cruel words and accusations
The nights you came home staggering through the door reeking of cheap alcohol and cigarettes
All the nights that were wordlessly spent even though we lay next to each other in the same bed
The thoughts of you still torment me by the hour and keep me up at night
But the day after is the absolute worst
No kind words or coffee to wake up to
Only an empty house filled with our old trinkets, and faded memories
Every day I embark on the same quest… of finding my old self again
Trying to relive the days that I vaguely remember and bring out all the pleasures I’ve denied my self
Some days result in triumph but most nights end is tears and despair
It is not my spirit that’s broken but my heart
My aching heart!
that still cannot seem to forget you
but beats with the hope that you will one day come back as a changed man

she’s beige, belonging to the tailor-made census censured for centuries.
you know, those clones clinging to a clue and cozying up to epicurean corpses.
bellisima encore, her with the eclipsing ego like some ill-conceived freudian offspring.
woman of gospel – preaching gore, gossip, guile – isle of iconic illusion.

She is not home
She has no final destination either
One day it’s Madrid and next week she is cozying up in Aspen
We did not meet by luck
I saw her first in high school
Painfully thin, limp haired thing with dreamy eyes and a very quiet smile
Years later none of that is there anymore
She has blossomed into a platinum haired buxom and sad eyed enchantress
5 feet and encased in a crimson ribbed sheath dress that shows off her décolletage
A naked face with just a dab of maroon on the lips
She can wear anything and get away with it
I saw her in the airport sipping a cherry  liquid with a black briefcase at her feet
She waved frome the distance and smiled mischevelously
The same smile that ate up 5 years of my life
We talked about nothing even though there was so much to be said
So many answers
About why she left
Why I had to fight left and right warding off pint sized and egoistical men who kept coming to my workplace and asking about her whereabouts.
Called her Ava, Alica, Coco, and Sapphire
I was grabbing for words but nothing came out
I was an expensively clad man who was tongue tied
She grabbed me in that special way that makes a man’s stomach churn and feelt uncomfortable…downstairs
We sat there in brief silence while she played with her gorgeous mane of dark waves
Something beeped and she leaned closer
“ Don’t try to come find me”

There's this war within me.
I thought once I learned the truth that it would set me free somehow.
But it has created this bubbling of emotions that want to explode; like a shaken bottle of pop. I closed the lid tight afraid the explosion might **** me like an erupting volcano.
When I breathe a little I know that my fears are just in my head.
My brain likes to remind though that as a child the monster wasn't hiding under my bed but in my bed cozying up to me.
Like a wolf in sheep's clothing.
So how do I trust anyone?
How do I trust myself?
I've been deceived before.
The negative committee in my head likes to tell me I was stupid & naive, that it's all my fault.
But who blames a child for an adults abuse?
That's Not a child's responsibility... ever.
I was always taught to listen to my elders.
I was a very obedient child.
What happens when the people who are suppose to teach you about your worth betray you and use you like you worthless?
I'm not a little girl anymore.
But at times I feel like one,
paralyzed with confusion.
Turns out I'm actually not crazy.
But a lot of crazy things have happened to me.
I'm a survivor.
I'm one of the lucky ones.
Yet I don't feel lucky.
I pray for your peace.
It takes a very broken person to be a monster to a child.
Even if you started this whole war within me.
I still pray for your peace.

A boy so simple and bland he hardly deserves a title
A little hunter boy fascinated by a fish
To get its attention he asked many questions
His bait was a stare and a shallow dip in the water
The fish didnt bite
But the boy waded in farther
Curious, the fish swam in close
Cozying up to a potential friend
But suspicion soon crept in
That true intentions were hidden
The boy said no
That it would never be so
But a few days it had been
And his affection had dimmed
The boy had enough
Of the poor fish's love
But what he didnt have was the courage to say goodbye
Murky blank eyes confessed what he couldnt
But dare he admit the fish was right
To soften the blow he gave a false prize
Promising to continue to greet his short lived companion
But all that was given
Was the poor mans rendition
Comprised of occasional apathetic glances

The little hunter boy still lurks by the ocean
Entrancing the passerbys

The fish peeks out of its reef of stars sometimes
To watch him continue his ways

But silence

A bell rings in the distance

Well this is something
The lights are quite bright but they don’t hurt my eyes
I don’t think any one here can tell that I have been crying over you
I decided on bangs
A Maroon cocktail dress
silver heels
Left my phone at home and skipped the clutch
Just wearing a smile
I hope there is some life left in my eyes
Who is there to call now?
No one there to welcome me home after a cold night
The food is agreeable
At least my friends look happy
Talking
Laughing
Cozying up to smiling strangers
Non threatening strangers
I want to sit down
But I am afraid ill have to start talking again
Fake interest in who knows what
No I think I am ok here
Sitting by fire
With the cat by my feet
The fire isn’t hot enough to thaw out my heart tonight
But I can always strike up a conversation with the cabbie on the way home

sometimes i wish we never met
then maybe it wouldn't be this hard to forget
every little thing,
every good morning greeting
etched in my being
caressing my heart
wrenching my gut

we should never have met
maybe then, i wouldn't have things to regret
i would never have been upset
whenever you haven't replied yet

now, sleep even evades me
just thinking you're angry
and i force to repress the hurt
when i picture you with someone
cozying in your arms
or you listening and loving her being whiny
and coaxing her whenever she's sulky

'cause you do all those things with me
so how can i accept it?

By: Cedric McClester

Donald Trump can kiss my ***
I’m writing this to put him on blast
Cuz as our president he’s been miscast
Everyone should wear a mask
Here’s a true and salient fact
When it came to coronavirus
He was slow to act
Perhaps that explains why the deck’s been stacked

Write it down as part of this stip’
Despite him having lots of lip
He hasn’t provided any leadership
So on our radar he’s just a blip
He’s a poor excuse for a president
I’m not the only one who shares this sentiment
When it comes to dividing us he seems hell-bent
And no matter what I say he will not relent

Evidence is more than ample
That he refuses to lead by example
He’s too vain for us to sample
And find me one norm, that he hasn’t trampled
He’s unconditionally unqualified
And time after time we find that he’s lied
But where he hasn’t, we know that he’s tried
And none of what I’ve said can be denied.

Donald J. Trump is a clear disaster
He’s in bad need of prayer and a pastor
And should accept Jesus Christ as his master
Instead of cozying up to that Fox newscaster
But he is a hopeless narcissist
Whose own self image he can’t resist
And long age should have been dismissed
But all he’s gotten is a slap on the wrist







Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2020.  All rights reserved.