the heart laid bare

Archive

No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
outsider
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

one and one makes two

I am in a place
Where one and one makes a delicious two
 
Though we do things higgledy-piggledy
You with your bed
And me with mine
And after a pleasant evening of TV and small talk
You retire to yours and I to mine
Alone
 
Though we see each other
Passing like ships in the night
Occasionally our rigging tangles
And we drift together with our anchors entwined
For a few hours
Until our crews cut us free again
 
Though we sit, overlapping
On one of two uncomfortable couches
That slope and stab and somehow don’t matter
We are more friends than lovers
but with no sense of something missing
 
Though we pay no attention to what others
Tell us we should be
 
Though we distance and return to each other
 
Though nothing is ever like before
 
In a world that makes no sense
You and I do.

To Scott, for a delightful chapter. <3
 

© mjc 05 June 2005

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, random shit-slinger, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.