SHATTERING GLASS

Shattering Glass
PM 1310044

A slight disenchantment coupled with a complete

lack of interest, I can't tell and I can't put the

jigsaw puzzle together. I must be really stupid

or perhaps just completely insane,

I have trouble putting the two together and more

trouble admitting that I am neither.

I used to be strong, or at least I thought I

was, I can't move around like I used to

and nothing gravitates to me anymore,

I am giving off anti-matter,

and I don't know what it is.

how can I be giving something off if I 

don't know what it is?

I guess I just know that I am emanating

something and people just know enough to stay

away from it.

I used to be able to thread a needle at arms

length, but now if I don't have my glasses

on there is very little, if no, sewing being done in my

life. I can't fix a button and I never knew how

to repair a zipper,

Who does anymore?

No point in crying, salty tears only leave

streaks and sometimes it hurts to wash your

face, battery acid pools in the wrinkles,

scouring them for certain but not the

kind of clean you were looking for.

The bench in the park seems the most

likely place to take that load off,

watch as the world passes you by

instead of making any effort to become a part

of it, each passerby leaves behind something

in their wake, your choice whether to make

a positive catch or not, let out the fishing line

and don't try to hook anything,

let something bite your hook.

I lay awake all night and wonder how I will

make it through the next month,

do I have the where with all to imagine the amount

of scenarios it takes to make a complete day?

There are so many holes in the universe

and each step is a risk and a victory at the

same time. Walking on glass is not a metaphor

to be used wisely especially for those who live

in glass houses.

Feel the glass crack under your feet and

wonder when its going to break, what is

underneath to break your fall, will it save

you, will you kill it or will it kill you,

its too far to move off the glass

so you have to take the next step.

MCC

GREAT NEON GHOSTS

Great Neon Ghosts
PM 1310043

The surface is bright white, sparkling

when clean enamel, it brings out many

of the blemishes right to the forefront,

much like my personality, out in the open

yet hidden down a dark hallway

the doors all have cobwebs on them and

there is nothing to direct you to which

one to open.

People walk through this corridor

every once in a while but they fear to 

open the doors,

strange noises come from the insides

and it makes more sense to run than it

does to investigate.

Sometimes I sit out in the hallway

preparing ginger tea,

not to impress, just to settle my stomach

and I get the strange leer,

the dead eye,

and I cringe in my chair hoping that

nobody is on to me,

and I crawl back into the room leaving

the smell of boiled ginger in my wake.

Its cool behind the door, and I play the 

ever-looping tape of eerie noises and

dog's barking, just to keep everyone

else at bay.

Nobody would dare open the door with

any idea of what was going on in there.

A very lonely man, alone, sipping from a 

mug of ginger tea, wondering why the world

chose to pass him by, why his neon did not

light up, the gas didn't pass through the right

connections and left him lifeless.

The neon flashes so brightly in Las Vegas

beckoning all those stupid enough

to give their life over to reckless abandon

for a weekend of thrills and a plastic beer mug

full of tokens.

I toss my neon back into the clouds and bid

it a fond farewell,

my journey has to be different and with the

difference it becomes much darker,

an unlit path, careful on the turns

and stay out of the corners, there might be

something awful in there.

Who can resist not going onto the corners,

I am unable and even though I know I

shouldn't, I still venture inside every

time I am confronted by one.

MCC

приветствовать любителей русской поэзии!

To My Russian Readers!

приветствовать любителей русской поэзии!

I have noticed a lot of visitors from Russia lately, more than anyone else actually, please feel free to contact me or leave any message on my writing. I am very excited to learn of the sudden interest.

AMBER LIGHT

Amber Light
PM 1310042

The light has switched from red to green

to yellow a number of times but I

am unable to move forward when it

goes green and by the time I manage to

coax it forward just a little the light has

switched back to red.

I am in trouble, all signs point to

just go through the red light and hope

for the best,

face the consequences when you get there,

and if nobody sees you, you will be safe until

the next set of lights,

it never crosses your mind to take the car in

and get it fixed,

solve the problem before you get to the light

and then they will all turn green in unison

and you can sail right through

unimpeded.

Why do I wallow in such stubbornness 

when I could easily soar above the land

and watch it as it blends everything up

into the turmoil that is life.

I feel it deep inside me, scraping the insides

and absorbing the refuse

instead of rejecting it.

How can I soar above such an ugly plain

and why does the fog always choose to

roll in just as I am preparing to lift

the front wheels off the tarmac.

Somebody left the side doors open and

now all the refuse of the world is pouring

in, unchecked,

and I can't keep up with it all.

I don't even want to, and as I watch it

flow by I realize that sooner or later it will

clear itself up and run opaque again,

I can't keep adding to it forever,

so if I stop it had to rejuvenate on its'

own, I am not in control, I never will

be so as I lay next to it I can only

pray that goodness will one day come through

and the stream will run free and clean.

Talk about biting off more than I could

ever chew, a small weight lifts off my

insides and reminds me again that I was

once a child,

but on that thought the darkness sets in and

the child I never knew is dead,

he never had a chance,

born without a bullet-proof vest

I took way too many shots to the head.

MCC

DISQUIET WEIGHT

Disquiet Weight
PM 1310141

I thought I had left my hard outer shell

behind, I know it had fallen off and I had

kicked it into the gutter,

it lay there, lifeless and I laughed at it as I

continued walking on, I should have

taken a picture of it because I now

forget what it looks like and now it may

be possible that it never happened at all.

In any case, the shell has begun to grow

back and its hard as steel this time. Nothing

will be able to penetrate it and this should

make me feel safe,

but it doesn't,

I am as vulnerable as the day I was

born and I know something is going

to land on top of me one of these days,

maybe not a grand piano, but something

heavy and the soft spot on top of my head

is the target.

I can't make it safe,

neither can I extend my shell over the

top of my head, it is always out in the

open, bare to the cold, the ill-will and

they try and enter it using a cold hammer

and chisel.

Every time I try to fight back, I grow cold

or I fall asleep,

something always happens to make me falter

and I realize why, always too late and

too quickly, I realize why.

Nothing can escape the final weight that

bears down upon you,

and I can't be strong anymore,

anymore.

I never wad and the lack of strength

has been my downfall,

and the reason the soft spot never hardened.

All would say its best to wear a hat but thats

only more weight,

and I do not need more weight on my

head, I can't carry what I have now.

Sadness is keeping me down and I am

drowning, not in tears but in pools of

self-loathing and mistrust,

unable to fight the monsters, I retreat

and berate myself for being such a coward.

I am not strong and never was,

I don't feel until well after its already

gone and by then is too late,

I can't get up in the morning and I can't sleep at night.

MCC

RAGEOUT

RAGEOUT
PM 1307301



Too many are waiting outside for my
arrival and I can't understand why
there is no one else who can look after
them right away.

I curse all of them inside as I throw 
out my cigarette and realize that my 
soup is going to get a lot colder before
I get the chance to eat it.

People are stupid, and the less smart they
are, the quicker they become more impatient
and more demanding.

I feel like they think I am the devil,
or at least his servant,
thrown here to abuse them and treat
them like the dirt they wallow in
day and night.

I don't care anymore, I treat them as
they treat me, relying on the first impression
to make a template for my future dealings,
but they eye me with such distrust that I have
no discourse but to bristle at them and this
is evident in my eyes.

Once they feel that initial stab, there is
no winning them back,
the poison was released in the
quills and the only antidote is to treat
me poorly,
no greater revenge than to remind me of
who I am and where I have ended up.

Instead of smoothing things over, I stir up
the water into a torrid whirlpool of hate and
animosity,
I stir and I stir until I have made
myself seasick from the motion.
Mal de mer which translates into more
distaste on their part and I know they 
hate me even more.

Even when I smile at them they feel
as though they are being spat upon,
my smile can only be fake now,
false as false can be,
yet I can now flash them at will
and at the very least, I'm not automatically
considered an outcast.

They still leave, seething just a little
as they have paid, and paid dearly
and though they think they are in control,
or at least that they deserve to be in control,
I am the one who has won,
at least for the time being, a shallow victory,
is still a victory.


MCC

ROADSIDE EMPANADAS

ROADSIDE EMPANADAS

PM0906133

The young girl at the side of the road looked no

more than nine or ten years old, maybe she was

twelve and suffered from malnutrition,

I couldn't be sure.

The basket she carried on her hip was huge

it looked bigger and weighed far more than she

did, all sorts of small packages, balls wrapped 

in napkins, steam coming off them in the early

morning cold.

As she climbed onto the bus, nimble as an elf,

the aroma hit me full in the face,

beef and onions, olives, all fresh and just off

the fire I would wager.

She smiled a mouth only half full of teeth,

whether it was her age or poor oral health,

I couldn't be sure, maybe a mixture of both.

I bought four for ten pesos, two dollars, more or less,

I offered one back to her but she refused,

she continued on towards the back of the bus

returning five minutes later with an empty basket,

I marveled at her salesmanship, yet a bus full

of hungry passengers was an easy sell.

They were delicious yet I couldn't help but picture

the bug-infested kitchen they were prepared in

and the less than sanitary hands that crimped the

dough and then so gently placed them in the

boiling oil. The dirty hands that wrapped them

in the napkins and gently filled the basket, trying

not to break any of them and have all their

goodness spill out.

How far did she have to walk to reach the road

and then how long did she have to wait for the

bus to come?

And when she got home, did she clean herself

up and begin the long walk to school,

or did she just fill up with more pastries and

get ready to go and wait for the next bus?

How does one analyze the different worlds

people live in without feeling a stab of pain

and wonder how some people live so poorly, 

and we complain when we are living so well.

I ate those four empanadas so quickly, as if they

were nothing, I didn't resent that I had paid the 

foreigner's rate, I just enjoyed them until the

bitterness arose in me so vile as to how many

might have suffered for me to have something to eat in

the morning after a long bus ride.

Her face was so dirty and sad and I will never

see her again as long as I live,

and she could be out there right now, waiting for

the next bus, an empty desk in a schoolhouse.

MCC