Poetry and Honesty

Choose carefully.

Spoken unwisely,

imperfect phrases are bare as they are,

faulted in of themselves,

destined to depart in the conscious of instant gratification.


A bottle’s flood tells too much,

and when written in restraint’s absence,

an author’s dried ventricles are spent and nothing is meant.

The locked chest deals everyone out a key,

trading glances about a plastic face knowing its lack of veracity.


Loom over the artist in the glass,

begging for the aftermath,

playing games with what-ifs as tension swells in tumultuous waves.

Drop a curtain on a Hitchcock drama and away goes suspense.

The person and the pen scurry from their reflections,

strangers to one another.


To venture from the looking-flask or demand its silence

comes short of answering any inquiry to a vessel’s schematics,

as encased in continuous trauma as it now rocks,

could it or should it ever let its creaking floorboards be heard?

With rusted nails unhinged around every bend,

Noah hung his head at the inelegant schematics,

drifting in from imaginary to meet creativity’s fleeting fantasy;

two dreams meaning too much,

equaling to less in evaluation.


It’s never honest with myself yet too close for comfort.

Words conjure imagery but the memory is disintegrating.

All is chosen cautiously haphazardly.

The sole truth is a bottle is broken,

a flood is brewing,

and a captain drowns.

( ❤ Mitch)

There Were Several Apologies

Have I interrupted?

Did I dare to intrude without knowing

despite the writing on the floor?

I thought I was meant to explore.

I thought there was something more.

But I entered as if my page was unintended.


Have I disrupted?

Should I have known the pieces to play?

You’re shouting “checkmate,”

but I wasn’t aware of my place on the board.

A bleeding heart seems to make you bored

as if my aching was only a distraction.


Am I the martyr?

Did I become the cause to nail up?

The practice in archery dressed as an apple,

and your tells are firing imperfectly perfect.

Whatever disaster I witness in my chest,

you’d rather blame on me and I don’t fight it.

( ❤ Mitch)

Kindness in a Nuclear Town

To a mountaintop,

none spare a glance at a climax in Everest’s shadow.

Feeding into anxiety’s legion propagated by inadequacy,

the mental jury will take stock of all evidence.

Henceforth find oneself wanting,

striving in vain for a journey’s end now declared lacking.


The ground stood on now was trodden on before.

A home’s land was bought and sold,

and before then it belonged to fields of old.

Steps forward are never the first,

all but a camera’s flash on Holocene chronology.


Careful study has printed a label prematurely.

Forerunners for never, forever,

suppressed by the smog of history’s prior progress.

Sing out the soot but the lungs release a familiar tune.


Arching overhead in clouded heads and foregone nights,

up high sits the metric to which no leap can match;

the moon has already become mapped.

A tale is already spoke, written, disseminated, discarded,

embedded into humanity as unbending fabric.


Jealous eyes are quick to the gavel.

A hand out of the smoke is hammered back into its category.

Gold is malleable but its fame is preordained.


Jealous eyes guard their prize.

One taller than another is a threat to stability.

Gold of the spirit is malleable but the potential is an act of war.


Calculated in the mood of vengeance,

those closest round down to the furthest depth,

deconstructing the rival self for another rung on the ladder.

All hands come on deck to tie down the dreamer for dreaming too high.


Encased in a circle surrounded by wolves,

inspiration will be picked dry,

spoken, written, disseminated, discarded,

abused by embraces dressed in sheepskin.


Fight or flight versus jealous eyes,

yet the result is always equated to wanting.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Artist Against the Observer

I see elegant swipes,

dances in moonlight

across empty landscapes

filled with only tangled bodies

enjoying a private canvas

of intertwined starlight:

A mirror of imagery I pull from the romantics.


You see the blankness

without its name.

You’re drawing conclusions

while I’m scratching in annotations.

You enjoy a private canvas

as the sum of its parts:

The product of the romantics detached from our age.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Loneliest First Step is Also the Last

Burned up from a departure

to reenter a grounded state,

a safety net condensed into fragments

disintegrating.

A whisper of history;

the sweet nectar of memory

ensnares delicately,

betraying the sense of suffocating

by these invisible arms.

Billowing from the fan

spinning lazily in an empty room

washed over in the heat of desperation,

it’s heard reverberating:

“you’re safe if you break.”

I mistook phantom limbs as a trampoline.

A basin widens in a crash.

If I were to ever ask

would you put trust in ash,

an answer’s unrequired;

it lies in the fragments.

This Will Self-Destruct

Would only be

brief;

a fleeting fix

to make

amends

with the

worst side of self.


Could only be

passing;

a subtle taste

to facilitate

conceding

along to

the demands of nil.


Should only be

temporary;

a frantic dance

to alleviate

collapsing

in the stress

of my triumphant worst side.

( ❤ Mitch)

Austrian Love Story

Tell me that it takes the clock’s hands.

Tell me that it needs days to grow.

Pouring decaying thoughts to flowers as they morph into weeds,

could it bring to life what was said to not begin?


And I think I might have failed as I reached,

but a stray sway of mind sent my heart reeling.

Separated from reality in the synecdoche of imagination,

skyscrapers rise taller to be the walls of isolation,

since I knew I stumbled when I struggled with my throat

and out came phrases that should have stayed voiceless.


Is it you I see?

Is it you I place into nonexistent photographs?

Am I losing time sorting through imagery

when the actors have stormed off the stage?

Is it you or is it a passing phantom?

Have I gone to replace in order to repeat?


Struck silent in lessons that were never connected to life,

yet the blurring dimension of fiction spills over from its art,

damning ourselves to parallels that ever will describe shortcomings.

Tearing through notebooks,

digging through the pages,

mining the handwriting dry for relief,

and I see us standing there in between the curving pen lines

where Klimt laid us down in golden robes,

and it was sworn to be elegance.


Was he wondering about what he saw and did he know when it’d arrive?

The most empty hope hangs itself on a wire hoping for response,

but the air runs thin higher up in the atmosphere of sinking dreams.

Did he doll us up in grace?

Did he know what he had made?

Or am I picturing you again where we never could begin?


Ours is a history of mistrust.

Ours is the dried ink rubbed off on a wrist.

Washed dry at the end of a night.

It may not have ever been there.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Economics of Sand Castle Real-estate

It seems dire at first glance:

A collection of limbs made of disparate grains

sat with resignation by a shore’s invasion march,

awaiting though never pursuing a future collapse;

a temporary life.


Chipped from stone to be less than its whole,

stumbling over the bare minimum of atoms,

falling into those with scattered pieces,

and the castle that emerges rarely equals the parts;

an inelegant time.


Put stock into sand.

Is it shocking when it crumbles?

Placed trust in rusted bones.

Is it shocking when they halt?

In the freeze of oxidation coughed up from a manakin’s breath,

is it shocking to find love is as cold as was predicted?


Reflections on the lake of consciousness.

The beaches are wiped of debris,

fabric of being drifting to newfound shores

where Locke proclaims a victory.

A temporary life.


A graceful arm intertwined in a crippled companion

comes as the wistful touch of a ghost;

merely a whisper against skin,

tingling the hairs as a surge of receding light

where a spirit was buoyed by its appointed lighthouse.

It bleeds into vision clear enough to regret,

yet obscured to where it cannot be trusted.

The question of hindsight needs no and has no answer.

An inelegant time.


Remembered only in creeping phases,

the faces seen and encountered in voice.

Temporary lies in a temporary life.

New shores beckon.

The victory is short-lived.

( ❤ Mitch)

He’s Idle at the Wheel

A prayer might float me over,

tide over the doubts momentarily.

Sweet wine lipstick coat;

apparel for the damaged saint.


Belief snakes in oscillation,

slithering by on its own time,

biting only in choice situations,

supplying venom for sustenance.


A loose phrase to satisfy.

A eulogy’s hymn, a lullaby,

turning a bottle’s ocean into desert,

revealing the brunt force of truth.


Turned over the pages;

each blank flipped a joker,

the edges a portrait of me

as I’m bent to stay inside.

( ❤ Mitch)