Ebb and Decay

Static in motion

                yet kept so still

                                in illusion of

                                                a form of progress

                                illustrated thusly in

                scattered carpet lines

wherein a kitchen blade

                was poking holes

                                playing pretend skin

                                                with a hunger for flesh

                                that plays its hand

                                                at a game of resistance

                                                                ebbing further cliffside

                                                                                until a precipice glistens

                                                                and a prey’s eye

                                                turned hesitant killer

                                catches a stray glimpse

                and a dormant compulsion

discovers a rebirth

                with maroon dreams

                                and dances with razors

                                                plotted delicately in fantasy

                                                                as spun by desperation

                                                and concluded as solution

                                                                by migration from the floor

                                                                                and jagged worry marks

                                                                towards definite indefinite

                                                                                outside of conscious bounds

                                                                                                where motion is irrelevant.

( ❤ Mitch

Dissected Attention Span

Hers was a fatal nothing.

Stretched across to negate awareness,

a back is pressed to the wall,

scratched delicately with fingernail signals.

Savored sensation

absent of substance;

inundation through imagination,

searching for more in laughter than reaction.

Caressing impressions ethereal,

mere mites on a mind

lacking conscious form to compose itself,

registering desire in tandem with attention,

in purgatory perpetual,

undermined in persistence.

The foe is an unspoken encirclement,

existent in the air between bodies

so meticulously intertwined

without ever been close from the start.

Crown the Kings of the Taproom

Gray slate has no reflection to state.

Penciled in are the features I know of you,

but nothing’s to show that speaks of a person.

Were it a mirage, none would blink twice.

Pressed into a walking statue makes no difference

when placed into the populace of a city of naught but stone,

where the self is rendered nil,

satisfied in its barest form of a predatory instinct.


Follow the fermented pool wherever it leads,

passing thru stranger’s doors for the promise of escape,

digging into the trenches of a barstool to stake out the closing time.

A final drop is a disappointment.

An empty hand must be a fallacy.

Clamor for the coming round as Malthus brings his thumb down.

There’s never enough to feast upon.

Disregard that which compels pause.

Everything is false and the hunt is where truth lies.


I no longer perceive whoever you could have been.

I no longer know what I shared with.

A car door slam accompanies a squeal towards the night,

dragging my ribcage behind as its thrashed about,

tugging out ligament by ligament until firmament empties.

And in the carnage, I’ll caress the carnal urge to be subjected to,

having spied the edge of the bottle’s domain and strayed clear.


Plunge me in.

Drown me in.

About without the thought of me.

Plunge me into the meaninglessness of mine.

Drown me in the impact I’ve lacked.

It’s clear I’m the losing half.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Villain Has a Butterfly Net

On a proper dose,

I’m blinking through the fogged windows,

having clarity when viewing the shapes of your arms

and the damage done by a scavenger’s talons.


Left scratched up in the far side of the ward,

there wasn’t a phone ringing.

Despondently turned towards the infinite blankness of white walls,

you brushed your fingers across my palm

and swore this had to be forgotten,

and if there were any vultures peaking under the door,

the story that’d come out would clip away your wings.


Shaking in an unstable state,

I felt I turned to paper in the plea you made,

softly resting on the tiles without a heart of gravity.

Peering through the spyglass of a drained capsule,

I saw you as the pen writing the narrative out;

two shattered bottles of ink embracing in the crash,

focusing thought to bring a solid out of a melting dream.


Yet in a flash that reflects back to me from the black,

a carnivore’s face is bursting through the hospital,

and his blazing eyes are locked into your stare.

Yet in a flash that reflects back to me as I tremble,

I spy ten thousand lies described on the shadows dwelling on my face.

We could trade our scars for a chance to pass the stars.

I’d tear and twist the fabric of our foes

to build the escape that’d see us careening out of step,

but so dangerously alike in the limp that plagues our wrists.


I couldn’t promise then if the door was wide enough.

I couldn’t promise then there’d be no letting go.

I couldn’t promise then and I can’t promise now,

but I’d wish more than anything to take you home.

Nurse the power left in those beating wings.

There’s a chance in space where spinning out is ever closer.

For this, I’d charge through debris with you,

further every mile away from the sway of a vulture’s preying.


On a proper dose,

I see the handle turning

as you take a plunge outside.

It was as if I never knew you.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Boy, in Parts

Truth comes foul

when the comfort of falsehood

loses footing in reflection,

geometry proven irregular in critique

with wanting eyes plowing for faults.


Unsustainable, the boy mutters,

tripping over cigar ash smiles

and knife hugs.

Dead-end motives

seek the next trial

to fall first, headlong,

losing by default in absent glances

where lust swings wild,

its direction uncaring for appearances

like cigar ash smiles

and knife hugs.


Unsustainable, the boy mutters,

enraptured by the rupture

cleaving through action and reason.


Desire comes aimed for the aimless;

quick fix dilemmas.

Lipstick scars

bandaging the whispers of displeasure

until withered

as plastic roots undo,

support decayed in reflection

when wanting eyes see only “no” as an answer.

( ❤ Mitch)

Lean Into It

Painted into the darkened clouds,

past the rim of eyesight locked on looming waves,

have you come to pull me out?

Shades are drawn over the cot.

I’ve been induced to statis again

under a marching fog’s watchful guard,

wrapped around my knees to bear down my feet.


A runaway set of tracks runs straight onto my head,

leading flying train carts to the top of the bed,

the force of a million hammers dropped carelessly onto,

and the aching never departs,

nor the thought that births its strength.

On a better day in a mirror’s rays,

it’s said I’m a carcass in a dancer’s gown,

confident in clothing that hides my darker colors

and the cracks I’ve inflicted.


Stuck out as a limb on a precipice,

jutting from the face of a pitfall,

you’ve got a shoulder I’m dropping my heavy weight on.

I don’t deserve this cushion or this ladder up.

I want to shout a question out to you,

but you’ve put forth an answer with a smile and a shrug,

lifting jetsam up the cliff as if it was air,

and on the trip to the surface I feel a rush.


A moment to spend beside your warmth

has me barreling towards a future,

holding in my heart the confidence to stand up straight.

Any slip towards the drop no longer has me panicking

knowing I’ve always you to know as my friend.

( ❤ Mitch)

Run the Table

Cast out the blind’s reel

and the night peeks in.

Setting’s all the same as it was before:

No shaved hair,

no wardrobe change;

all is as it were,

with a pajama presentation show,

trying to force a deal with the lights

to give a strength that’s never internal.


Waiting at a window for a wandering word

to plummet down through the shingles of my armor,

the comet to pierce through glacial aftermath

where any sense of self has been ashes or frost.

There’s no new sign in the lasting stars,

too distant to know other than an ephemeral name,

too far to call to in confidence,

but I’ve more faith in removed particles than flesh and bone.


I push forth a wilted rose as a bargaining chip;

a promise of quiet in the darkness

or wherever the endless question guides,

and an assurance of peace in a blank garden,

never trampled by visitor or friend.

In the stillness of the sky’s overarching eye,

there’s only a silent nod to perceive,

impassive to the passing observer.

I find in it truth in dried scars on the thigh

while testing the veracity of an edge

or the secret behind a tall window’s ledge.


But there’s no waving embrace.

No trampoline to cushion.

Only a comet’s crater,

scorched and seething with heat.

Panicking in a pajama show I stand above,

all as it were:

Same fear.

Same doubts.

Same insecurities along my legs.

Waiting on a hope to abandon,

or a hidden fire to draw down the blinds

and block off the gaze of the emptiness.

( ❤ Mitch)

It’ll Cost You Points on the Scrabble Board

Rested at the crossroad in declining light,

wanting to see a blameless city burn,

with a thousand screams sending hammer strikes through windowpanes

from the frigid air you’ve been cramming down my throat.

It’ll be my fault for the shrug and turn demonstrated

when circles face inward and cast out the outcast outward,

jagged geometry punishing for poking a head out of doors.


Should have known better in the room’s poor weather,

feeling a frost from a friend’s bare blade advertised as a coming of age.

Distance is what stands a character straighter,

makes a man grow a mammoth’s coat,

digs a wider cave to let a bear swallow up a conscience,

sleep soundly through a season without a need to care or be cared.


The biting temperature’s greeting is a feeling that’s unrelenting

in the absence of flotsam to grip onto a lucid thought.

I’ll pull back the lever that’s laid down the gates,

letting their fangs shing bright on shirt stains and band aids,

their urgent signs the manor wall boxing me into nothing.

I’ll sap out the marrow in the name of Puritan self-sufficiency,

chasing myself out the back door of parties with my own words,

smearing over a veneer to never let in on the fear.


Hung up, chin down on a fortress surface,

I take Rothko as my shield and never give a hint otherwise

that there’s any other color to spy besides the one clear in the eye,

unequivocally un-opaque next to more exciting shapes.


Inside a blank picture are a thousand screams

all loosely tied to draw out the frame of me.

Should I ever loosen grip on the wall,

light strings fly, tossed into a cold breath,

made thin in the presence of larger characters.


Would rather be found in a tree limb’s embrace,

discovered in a kite riddled with pike strikes

as those around desperately stamped out the sound of a soul

for never fitting properly in the jigsaw world.

Affection in the Age of Wiring

A brightness permeates in a shadowed room.

Another sleepless twilight beckons from beside the bed.

The next flash could be a sign.

The next flash could be a chance.


Sound pierces a quieted space past midnight’s hour.

The morning crawls into view a second too soon.

I’ve yet to rest when sleeping on a cliff’s edge.

I’m waiting for the next message you’ll never send.

( ❤ Mitch)

Every Win is a Loss

Dip me into a bed of snakes and I promise I’ll breath fire.

These worries will not survive another calendar page.

I’m at the task with nothing to ask,

only for a bridge between

to map out the continent we’ve come to create

with an arm linked up beside its holder.


Is it enough

to hold a marching people afloat?

Is it enough

or should I wait for an answer?


Thrown to the pack of wolves from your rage,

I’m taking teeth marks to drop your rapier

as you’re taking a fable out of rock,

willing to lay down upon a could-have been

for the would-have been have done their work,

and the lifeboat you’ve seen across in my sea is deflated:

False hope to a dreamer.


Is it enough

to guide you towards me?

Is it enough

to guard a speared self?


I’m here waiting for an answer as you’ve gone.

I’m down here waiting for an answer as you’re scrambling up the canyon edge.

If you’re calling then your voice is too distant to hear.

If you’re calling then I can’t see any lips moving.


At the flames I’ve beckoned I saw fear running

and thought it was fair enough to call it enough,

yet all I see is a cracked gray,

encasing memories around it,

and all I see is dried

into scars that surround me.


And I have severed hands,

laced with the single stress

that if you’d go to battle for me

there’d be no fire from your mouth,

and I don’t think you’d be there at all.

( ❤ Mitch)