Paris With You

It is privacy
Neutral territory
Away from
Day to day

At once fun
Exciting, other person
But not how
One behaves

When bills, are hungry
Tired, after work
Lack of sleep

Still, to travel well
With someone new
Reveals what
You crave

Shared experience,
Next May

Neither fall in love
Nor divorce
Your boring,
Sexless marriage

Good trip
Good fuck
Does not equate
Happiness for ages

Think of the children
Consider your wallet
You’ll always have


-Copyright C.M. Mounts, February 2018

What is yours?

What is yours?

It is an hour before. With pen and paper, you sit as you always do wherever you are. A bartender stares at you when you order a beer and asks, “How cute are you?” You think, ‘No, you can’t have my number’ but say, “Thank you.” Writing and editing in a bar keeps men away. It’s easier to figure out what you’re after. It’s not them.

What is yours?

You look at your pens as if they belong to someone else, borrowed, unwanted so you picked them up. You look at your journal as being second hand, disregarded by its owner, so you picked it up. Where does this come from?

You bought each. You chose each. They are your tools of self-expression, of deliverance from a muddy mind and heart. This is your pen box. This is your ‘unlimited’ access to paper and ink. This is where the fire glows.

What is yours?

Your glasses. Your handwriting. The box of half used tissue. It is your tears that they wipe away, no one else. You are driving a meat wagon too that others seem to think they have some dominion over. They have no power over you, none that you don’t give them.

You have chosen the life of a worker. You pursue other activities once all your energy is spent. You can barely participate in anything else. You have no companion. You were not a good one.

What is yours?

This pain. This sorrow. Longing for a lifetime, for approval from someone wholly incapable of accepting themselves. Why are you surprised that they cannot accept you as you are? Why do you concern yourself with the behavior, the absence?

You carry so many heavy things. The wall of silence pressed down upon you for so long that it stole your words, your tongue, your expression. What are your rights of passage? Who celebrated with you? Who ensured that you knew that you mattered?

Now when people look at you and say, “Get over it,” they do not understand that the eruptions into the light are new. You have not dwelt upon this. You have been silent, silent, so silent. Your words are backed up, a packed colon of blackened pain. Your hopes feel unreachable.

What is yours?


-Copyright C.M. Mounts, November 2016

1st World Problems

Long distance running
To where, exactly?
Persistent roar

Expressed through
Various media
Punctuate an otherwise
Mundane life

“Ain’t nothin’ going on but the rent”
Wisdom from a black woman’s mouth
I do not understand
Explain it to me

Yes, nothing going on

Work and home
Work and home
Weekend and beer
Work and home

Punctuated by anxiety
Of my friends and family
Set on uneasy ground
Sold self-dissatisfaction

Told to blame their neighbors
Different ones
For whatever their current
Woes may be

I cannot change the world
I can only change myself
Only in small ways

I can focus on the
Gaping maw of greed
Ever hungry for what
My flesh
Can and will produce

Or, I can

Sit by a hospital bed
Hold the hand of the helpless
Tell the people I love
I love them so


-Copyright C.M. Mounts, August 2017