Today 

Reality is beautiful. There’s dishes from the night in the sink, an ashtray on the kitchen counter, all evidences of two people who finally lived, instead of existing, after a long, long time, scattered all over the house. Your shirt comes down my knees, almost. I wear that to make breakfast, despite my own closet spilling clothes onto bedroom floor. Because your shirt is real. You stretch and follow me shirtless into the kitchen, even though your clothes are freshly washed and folded in your closet. Because skin, skin is real. We make breakfast, touching in one small way or another. We laugh. The cereal gets soggy. We really don’t care. Reality is beautiful.

Meat Atoms 


Meat Atoms. Lumps of blood and flesh with indecipherable chemical impulses, derived from measurable stimuli. We grow from one cell to being Beings, with destinies and dreams and back to organic matter, crumbling under the soil. We are the molecules of the universe. We matter. 

Love 

You watch him

You watch him laugh 

He’s holding her hand

They walk 

As if he’s stepping on air

In her wake

You might as well not

Be there

You stare

At that hand

You used to hold 

At that man

Who was yours 

Who walked out of your heart like

He never even was 

She laughs and

He gazes with the wonder

Of a thousand glittering stars 

In his eyes 

He finally sees 

Even though he doesn’t understand yet

For you

That’s what he used

To be

He bobs his head eagerly

Holds the door open

She sails past

She’s amused, he’s oblivious 

to the fact that

She’s not gazing back tenderly

Even from the sidewalk, you recognize 

That bemused expression

That detached air 

You remember your nerves fluttering around him 

And that’s the smile

He used to wear 

You watch the pantomime unfold

Not sure yet if

You’ve seen enough 

If you’re ready to go

You’ve crossed the signpost he’s

Walking towards

She will break his heart, too 

And he too will know 

Love 

©CM

10.03.2017

Whore 

  

A whore is pointed at 

Not because she sells herself, but

Because she sells herself for 

Far less than she is worth 

Not because she lets a strange man

Paw her breasts for money 

Sweat on her face, grunts between her thighs 

She’s not bad because she’s ‘easy’

We all have prices 

We all have sold ourselves in

Different ways

At different rates 

Some more than others 

But we all get paid eventually

A different wage 

And sometimes

You have to whore yourself

For a lesson learned that 

Will not be forgotten

Can not be denied 

You lie naked on the floor

Next to a man you thought 

you knew like your own skin

And you realize 

That if the price you paid

Was respect lost, then

That price was altogether too high 

Whore
©CM 
14.02.2017

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone. 

Hercules

20140730-185407.jpg

 
I don’t know how you are so brave
How everything that bruises you leaves so
un-touching-ly
You smile that secret smile and carry on
As though you weren’t stopped, but you’d paused
And now you were walking on again
Not crippled, just resting one leg
Not sad, not aching
As if you hadn’t built that house of cards so
pain-staking-ly
Then you listen to me
And you laugh
And I forget what I was even angry about
Because you are so brave
So in-defeat-ably
That just the aftertaste of you is strong
enough to
make-me-see
Courage is as much about not mourning
as mourning
everything-that-could-not-be-saved
Or
Loving that fish,
Respecting a donut
Not wearing underwear on principle
Waking up early on thursdays to shave
And just as much shrugging
nonchalantly,
making a wrinkly nosed face, and
carrying on, because you are
that brave

 
Hercules

(c)CM
10.02.2017

Half Past Three

 

I love you unbelievably
As though it is a still life that I’m
Drawn into a corner of,
There’s cities and wars and happiness
And there’s you in it too
with no
Beginning nor end in sight

As though oceans skim the meaning,
Existence touches the surface
And the faint specks of black in your eyes are
The depths of years and years of nights

I love you so indistinguishably from
Any fathomable stretch of imagination
The roots are lost in incomprehension
I look around but
I don’t know how I got here

The stars settle in the creases of your smile
Absences and evanescences deny me
Immolation
Or absolution
It’s not clear

What are emptinesses? What are seas?
What are galaxies between you and me?
When it’s dark and unnaturally silent, and the wind is digging its teeth into my hands, and yet
You’re still the most real thing to me at half past three
There’s a moon somewhere, or time, or cigarettes
And I look at you, and always feel a little breathless
Or maybe they all burn the same way away undefeatedly

But it’s half past three
And it’s not clear
How I got here
But I love you
Unbelievably

 

 

 

Half Past Three

©CM

07.02.2017

 

 

These winter nights.. You can’t blame me. 🙂

 

Half Past Two 

  

Sometimes, words come to you at two thirty in the night. 

You don’t know the words yet. They hover just beyond the edge of consciousness. Half of them you want to attribute to epiphany. Half of them you know belong to a fever slowly coming down. 

Words. They grow like that, sometimes. 

And you find yourself leaving a comfortable bed, shrugging off a warm blanket that you suddenly can’t breathe under. And you know that it’s simultaneously too hot there, yet too cold and too empty to be lying in, all of a sudden. And the one warm body that could possibly make any of this livable is so, so far away at that moment. You can’t change that. Sometimes, he won’t even let you change it. 

Bodies. They rebel like that, sometimes. 

So you walk out to the porch, staying on the dark side, the one the harsh streetlight hasn’t stained golden yellow. You sit on yesterday’s newspaper that the wind threw to the floor, and you learn against the wall. You’re not sleeping, you’re wide, wide awake. The dream like quality of all this is painted deeper by the words that your heart promises will come. Sometimes they do come that way. But words are capricious, occasionally on purpose. They like to needle, to hurt a little, and watch the game play out. 

Hearts. They’re much of the same. They hurt like that, sometimes. 

This night’s chill is not good. My feet are wet from the dew, and I’m coughing again. Morning will be work, no more sick days left. And yet I’m loathe to leave this bare boarded surface, where the splinter is digging under my thumbnail. Boards are not meant to gripped for comfort. 

But neither are nights. And the edges of this one are painted with promises, and words, and the hope of a warm body who will look at mine and smile, and his heart won’t be capricious even when mine is. And till the moon goes down and the stars fade away, this breathlessness will stay with me, because none of that might happen, but the words still might. Sometimes, they do that. 

Twilight and trees, sleepless eyes and empty hearts. They come together like that, sometimes. 

My heart is so full, that I may burst

At the seams of my being, but yet 

I can’t kill this thirst

I walk this knife edge, veins 

Alight with madness 

Feverish wanderings compelling me

To gamble the dredges of sanity 

Tiptoeing reality, tonight

It’s not hard to do 

Speaking in the silences

I lie in the one place you’ll never be

And I watch for you 

Half Past Two 
©CM 

02.02.2017