Every Sense Reads as Impossible

Send a notice if you would.

There’s little else to ask for.

Cease the chase,

remove the climax.

Circumnavigate to ambiguous endings.


I’ve seen withering through growth,

with the wilting of understanding through closeness,

perspectives cluttered in expectation

when language is liquidated,

flowing uncontrollably by tongues fanning flames.


Drench me in the notes.

Splatter buckets across loose-leaf.

If it’s piercing through and the center fails to hold,

write the result as fate and turn gazes away.


It seems poetically inevitable,

but I beg to try,

I beg to test

as if primal will trumps Newton’s fist.

I beg a chance,

I steal a thought,

as if everything we’ll never be can be made to be.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Room Made Quiet

Nearer enough to catch a brew’s scent

dripping off of morning lips

as I’m mourning the value of less

than a drop of this attention’s lack.


It’s unusual in that the worth of nothing expands

in proportion to how the nothing is defined.

Portrayed in flowing gowns,

staged in Broadway colors,

intangible is palpable to a point of feeling

close enough to catch a fleeting touch.


It’s unusual that by noting a crushing sensation,

course is never abandoned rapidly;

that I’d vow cold turkey in bathroom mirrors

before a distorted vision of you reappears,

and I can taste caffeinated scandal

without understanding its meaning.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dead Hope Kids

You crawled out of your shell and cried for the fifth time that week,

cradling the thoughts of departed on a crowded bedroom floor,

wondering if warmth really came from rubbing elbows with reminiscence.

We were sea faring warriors against the waves we made in our eruption,

knowing a collision was demise as depicted in dictionary.


I fought to maintain a light in a dark room.

You wrapped it in pillows to smother it out with the last comfort you knew,

afraid the rays were the eyes of an appointed god barreling thru the front door.

Seen the newspapers in piles where the dates climb forward

but the frame that lies on the ground has yet to age a day.

Folded over are the letters lost to lovers and friends that wept but had no say

when submarines couldn’t match the depth you discovered

far below the capabilities of the ocean’s dreaming.


“Burn it down,” softly spoken voices called

where the colored dots on the windowsill failed to reach

and teach about the lessons of isolation.


You thought to cut it out was to cut to the bathroom tile,

the gray changing hue with the season as the departed returned with falling leaves,

the silver in the wastebin the dead skin you shaved off,

hoping the recollection tattooed on experience was a volcano’s mountainside;

a flood of water and nature would cover the creases,

easing the trembling,

nullifying the quaking

as you’re still shaking at the stray mention of names or places in photographs.


I fought to maintain a light in a dark room.

You wrapped it in pillows to smother it out with the last comfort you knew,

cursing wordlessly at statues forever rooted in your field of vision,

and in the moment where we touched,

I knew I would never be where he stood.


The departed hold the line and you’re always afraid of looking past.

The dead have hands wrapped around your ankles.

“Fall into” the softly spoken voice starts to scream.

“Give into,” the voices are all screaming.

The dead beckon you back.

The dead beckon you back.


With legions ahead in the foyer,

there’s no rescue to the side of your bed,

where you’re shivering in the heat of cluttered memories,

and I knew I would never be where they could be,

and you were never going to be the same.

( ❤ Mitch)

Affirmations

I’m off to understand greater the frontier outside of grids.

Tracing road map signs in cursive loops,

the ways winding about geographical decay,

the arts of cityscapes a bleaker horizon daily.

Reading messages in smokestack signals,

convinced of an image in immolated dreams,

I’m left to try again at things that may never make certain sense,

but in the procession of dating archaeology,

an inch nearer waterfall drops in years,

the climb to experience is our single reminder of humanity.

You could have seen the Grand Canyon,

but never actually seen it in your life.

Putting Blanks in Blank Spaces

Emptiness is a kiss on the cheek,

barely brushing the bone behind skin,

needling at structure too slightly to ever see

until deep in the white is an irreversible knife.

Aching comes as the thought of an embrace;

the gesture unspoken, unwanted,

unknown when confined to literature and portraiture;

alien if never seen or felt.


I remembered it in songs written about anyone but us,

never heard by us,

never known by us.

I remembered playing pretend in the twilight as our sun set,

tracing makeshift constellations with my fingers,

the surface of the sky bending to the will of fable.


It only needs sustenance at the assurance of shared words.

Bled from supposed coping,

now the palette of the storyteller,

let the Greeks romance what I demonstrate miles above our heads.

Codified into the study of condition and fitness,

the character I step into can enter in the alphabet of stars.


Ask a question to challenge it as I find the will to create it:

What if eyes are only as good as our minds,

and fear holds the reins when loosened by consciousness?

These reservations are furniture stains,

stubborn against the methods that work to wipe the woe.


What if a cluster’s lines are not the meeting of intersection,

and parallel lines are what we come to be defined by?

These limitations are the imaginary numbers,

understood as existent but their purpose disputed.


Coy penmanship can replace the blanks of ripped-out pages with equations,

measure distances and trick the answer to zero.

I could see the geometry of you and me in songs we didn’t make,

we never wrote,

we never heard.


You replied without an inquiry to spare,

but the answer to that which was lodged in my chest,

cracked by an emptiness biding its time with an irreversible knife:

It wasn’t that it wasn’t there,

but what was there wasn’t shared,

and it wasn’t wanted.

( ❤ Mitch)

And Now You Are…

In all attempts to retreat from the tide,

I see you turned about to reside in fantasies of watered-down lungs,

bent over in a decomposing spine resigned to thinned marrow.

There’s no hand to snatch an arm going under,

shrugging off the pounding as an expected conclusion’s calling.

And in a calculation of futures real or unknown,

I’d be rather found knee deep and lower still in grains,

standing you up on my shoulder blades as the sentry of your youth

when the best is tried to let it cascade into monochrome.

Like running colors washed down a leaking canvas,

I’m cradling the droplets to fix you again

were it to be possible to arrange the image exactly as it were,

but the paint you’ve chipped away never fit the same.

I remain standing to allow you to stand;

to repair what’s been torn apart to be torn once more,

for I’d sink first before watching your eyes become swallowed by the surface.

It would never fit the same,

but I’d sink fist before witnessing your grave.

Every Page Unwritten

He lit a candle in a cave untouched through years,

where only photo book reminders colored the sides.

Written down in the margins of coy messages mailed between desks,

something resonated in the angles and the threes.


Even if the letters shrink in the knocking of aging,

you’re cuddled up near the ghost of an ash pile’s warmth.

It was a thought prepared to take up arms when a mind rejected.

Now all that rests is a heart dotted with wax stains.

( ❤ Mitch)

Plain as the Eye Can(not) See

Side by side yet viewing the same things differently.

The portrait suppresses changing though eyes dress up static in costumes.

Be it poor luck or Pollock,

black splashes or testament,

perception is what we ourselves will make of it,

and what we ourselves make is a bridge lined with kerosene.


Staring into painted faces,

I don’t know what I seek for in them,

sending wayward glances to neighboring papers,

copying off reality to merge with the imaginary.


When you transformed your hand into a fist,

crumpled up a ragged piece of parchment,

could it be read as a sign that I’m left out of sight?

I don’t see loss in receding numbers or the observation of a wreck.

I see descending scraps that need but tape and patience.

A small idea sent to spiral out can be reeled in,

or I’m left weary in the gaze of a painted face’s musings,

or the words in my ear are only there when made to appear.


The comfort that I feel is the embers of a severed connection,

for I’ve learned to construct meaning out of the fleeting,

gathering ashes in buckets and making castles out of the remains,

fortifying memory against the grain.

What burns now is the warmth of guessing games,

for I’ve learned to dream away fears by repressing them with escapes,

plunging deep into infinity where realities diverge,

life plays by multiple choice and all answers are checked green.

It replaces you and we and our.


I am the product of the blueprint unintended.

I am sustained off of what could have happened if you didn’t shake your head.

( ❤ Mitch)

It Was What Wasn’t, and is What it is Not

Fleeing light darts out of a moment.

A flash instantly integrates into history,

having captured shifting time on memory’s copper plate.


I rush to seize what attempts to disappear.

I stab at seconds with ink,

fervently hoping the emotion will dry,

for the sun will never hit your eyes as it did then,

and I cannot bear to lose more of what you were.


Clock hands chirp out desperation.

Once a grand plain of all things possible spanned from minute to second,

now minimized to the reality of brevity,

a dull tone the closing call at a shaded corner.

The chairs will never find the same position.


The conversation is a dance where steps are improvised,

the blocking an investigation into the meaning of touch

and the feeling of the sound of delicate phrases;

that which fiction have imbued with the weight of affirmation.


Evenings alone in the mirror’s glow helped rehearse the perfect lines,

straightening speech to match the idyllic view of youth,

marching into cold lakes and skipping trespassing signs as a birthright,

the consequence inconsequential.


Evenings alone erected a tall figure luminous with confidence.

Trading the reflection for the affection of a spirit that recedes into collapsing seconds,

I’m hunched over,

my arms to myself,

pressing organs together as if to squeeze out the thoughts

or to hold them in,

using fragility as a collaged solution to insecurity.

Alone in togetherness,

I’m laden with thundering nerves,

and practiced poetry lacks lips to leap from.


I will to motion but find no movement to inspire,

my fingers drumming incessantly at my sides,

hoping that anxiety will learn morse code and tap out what I can never say;

that if I could articulate my thoughts this day,

I know your flickering hair will fade,

and never again will this room see it as it were,

and never again will I know it as it were,

for a breath is ever and always temporary as time,

making the fluctuation of emotion a foregone finale.


I could confess it now,

knowing all too well how interior design functions,

though when challenged with cue cards on blank expressions,

the uneasy mind is quick to retreat to the cold it dwells in.


I travel in new steps through days,

through months,

through years,

in different ways and places,

yet I wear the shoes that stood in a quiet second.

I stab at the surface with ink.

I want what I leave behind to mean something in time.

( ❤ Mitch)

Destroy Me

Often it is in hereafter,

following the expulsion of thought

splattered across a face unwelcoming,

yearning reaches a standstill;

pivot against the friction of feeling

or indulge in a pursuit ever deeper in its shortcomings.


Henceforth it comes to light

when desperate rungs take flight,

desire possessed and lacked its direction

encoded into the machinations of being,

where the individual is never spared a thought,

but the outside world is provided ceaseless consideration.


Solely by the talent of losing

in cracked-soul prose and late-night episodes,

the all that could be given is given rashly

before the extent of the exodus is recognized.

In a short span between breathing and waking,

love escapes, half willing, half unwilling.