Open Palm to Psalm Zero, Eviction Notice Chant

What a pretty portrait to paint on a Sunday.

Wine red in artery lines.

Wipe it clean over the canvas.

Delightful!

Achieving the dismal.

Becoming dismalism.


Resurrect in a week’s middle to end.

Axe’s grind requires a feast.

Feed the engine the entrails of dreams forgotten,

dismantled surgically in the realism lens.

Congratulations on nothing!

Accomplished the dismal.


Reborn in ash but choking on the remnants.

Phoenix fire remedy a death march melody.

It all is DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.


Recalibrated to perform the ritual.

Liquor up the boys to subdue the round’s impact.

Cubicle coffins wrapped in bows,

tied over in suits and white fence security.

Wine red to whine about in desires for an end’s dead end.

How very DISMAL to say!

DISMAL TO SAY.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

D

I

S

M

A

L.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Random Thoughts: Where Have I Been?

Evidently, I haven’t really been using WordPress much for the majority of May. A lot of this deals directly with how I began with month; I was in a state of reflection where it seemed as though the blog had hit a brick wall in terms of growth, and there didn’t seem to be a good explanation as to way. It was very demoralizing to watch the activity fall without really knowing what was behind it, and I felt powerless to recover past statistics. It appeared at the time to be a waste of my effort to try and invest effort into something that was collapsing arbitrarily. I still do attempt to update things here despite my cynicism, but the entire experience was very jarring. I hate to complain so much, but the whole situation was entirely confusing and upsetting to witness.

However, my reservations over this website pale in comparison to the other large endeavor now swallowing up my time: job searching. With college in the rearview mirror, I now have to seek out some kind of employment opportunity to assist in moving on with my life. This process is pretty difficult, takes substantial concentration, and may take a long spell of time. Hopefully it isn’t so arduous that I’m stuck without a position for months, but I’m prepared for whatever potential outcomes arrive.

In addition to the above, my Instagram account seemed to catch fire out of nowhere. It could quite possibly follow the same trend as this website where it’s a ‘boom & bust’ phenomenon, but I’m currently trying to ride the high and gain further ground. Because of this, I have been spending a lot more energy focusing on that aspect of my artistic projects. The emphasis on this website has lessened in response, as well as the KoFi account, which I think is safe to set aside as a failure; the current outlook is not a favorable one.

I will continue to post here, but the frequency may continue to decrease depending upon how other things pan out. I suppose the whole point of this ramble is to assure whoever reads that I am alive, writing, and keeping busy, but I’m not necessarily here as often anymore. It just doesn’t seem as worth it compared to other things I have going on. I’m aware I’m repeating myself at this point, so it’s probably good to cut things off for the night! Hope you all are doing well, sorry about my moodiness, and catch y’all on the flipside.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Ain’t it a Shame

Wrote nothings and licked over the edges,

sealed shut for a nebulous purpose.

I’ve packaged air to send across the waves

to crawl down the back of your neck,

picking out the hairs to stand at the ready.

Gunning for that niche in the gray matter.

Had a thought there was still a seat saved.


Hurts to recognize I’m a magazine salesman,

seeing a story where I’m the fuck up,

you’re the right one,

and I can’t argue much of it.

Decomposed a symphony rolling out.

Tied a strategic knot in the tongue.

Vocal cords would’ve become useless anyways.

Actions purchase their consequences.

Hurts to realize I’ve fucked up.

~

(<3 Mitch)

ah HA ah HA ah HA

Champion

of adversity

clamoring

to apexes.

Chip, smash, knock away.

How tall to aim for?

Consult the books,

consult the screen,

what’s it flashing?


Underdog story

handcuffed to a ladder.

Not getting very far now.

Sideways traveling without directional sense.

Damn it all!

Tumbled.

Getting nowhere near now.


Chipped, smashed, knocked.

Who walks away in favor?

Insta mirror not the mirror,

but both the mirror.

Sinking story.

Going further into further.

Be damned.

Have fun

writhing.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

The Under 30 Club is Now Accepting Applications

Strike up the banners.

Listen closely to messages under dirt:

They’ve got a promise to sell.

Knocking up and down on the soil,

read the reverberations in Morse code.


Sweet indecision tastes lovingly bitter on the lips.

Speak it out and it opens out the mouth’s poison.

Let it constrict until it never loosens.

Swallow! Choke! Cram it down.

Let it constrict until regrets are past tense.

Swallow! Choke! Accept it all.

You’ve got a train ticket to yesterday.

Hope to miss it again.


Buying out seats to the self destruction show.

Boy explodes.

Boy dies.

He’s combusting just for you.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Cost Ineffective

It couldn’t be afforded but was taken anyway.

There wasn’t a price tag to our narrative;

it was scrawled on brick,

etched into philosophy:

great are we as we realize ourselves in perserverance.


The limits placed were redirected,

made boundaries on society,

called out the enemies of industry,

where words out of rival mouths were propaganda cries.

Tuned it out with glass and plastic,

licking dry the drug of our lips,

laid in a heap when embraced,

stranded drifters scrambling to cover breaches in the hull.

One hand releasing drowns us

as we find the boundary of physicality,

low on limbs to forgive cracks in the apartment.


Out pours what can never be admitted.

You’ve an anger to accept versus my violent silence.

Knowing that facing the separation would birth havoc,

gauging flaw from fact,

all were damned to be liars against imagination.

Encumbered in the flood too long,

we stopped noticing the lack of breath between us,

finding gasps to be pleasure,

losing sight of the shore as glorious spontaneity

under the gaze of a rigid world.


You’ve glass to pluck out of your forearm

when the closing call fought an urge for more.

I’ve fabric to barricade my new hell,

wishing you well while descending,

cloaking harm marks with tattooed grins.


It couldn’t be afforded and now red signs are red integers

lining conscious,

mutually depleted.

Etched it on the back of my hand

and still told all to a brick wall

when knowing falls repeat as the globe spins;

you glide in gravity back to where you started,

and what clouded before is the head’s atmosphere.


Subdued it with plastic.

It ran free

as she’s somewhere in the sea,

drowned ten feet down or hovering above,

neither in sight from a knife’s edge.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Jim Jones Could Sell the Air Back into Lungs

Tin can man dance.

Hear the machinery adjust to the steps.

More oil for the gears if he falters.

More air pumped into the lungs.

He’s got poetry tongues and venomous prose.

Spit it out in rusted bones.

Close enough to his breath and you’re oxidized.

Construct it piecemeal if it’s not enough.

Build a better practitioner of impatience.


Jangling metal’s alluring tune;

a myth of progress in robotics.

Faults for a day and rises in three.

Divinity achieved in glassy eyes,

and the glassed eyes watch and pray for a visit,

turned about in the factory floor.

Production goes for more years to come.

The ink never runs out for us.


They tap away on the screen.

Sell out for a knife or two.

Heretics abound with the wool over your eyes.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

The View’s Different Twenty Stories Higher Up

Hooked on a minimum wage addiction.

Survival instincts force a coup of the living room.

Dug into the furniture’s trenches.

It won’t improve in the climb.

The only rising thing is the mailbox.

Seeing red pile up through the cracks.


Trade time for commodity.

Shivering in warmth.

The chill is a fever spike,

failed to sweat out in isolated fits.

Deals run short on purchasing a halo.

Lose luck on happiness and currency.


Drop out and let a house of cards fall.

Drop out and a stray breath blows it down.

Drop out and worries subside subsequently.

Drop out and have it end.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Psychodynamomania

There’s no privilege in provoking secrets,

daring closeted skeletons into the light.

Shoveling out all with the pocket lint,

let the bones rattle when pressed,

bounding from room to room without a change in either,

and the story reverberates from start to end

exactly as it started and ended prior.


Swing back,

load the shot,

down the whole if it’s been said before

that wings mangled in barbed wire aren’t fit for flight.

A mess of veins makes for a soothsayer’s tongue,

adorned with rust from telling dated tales.


Taken stock of archaeology’s understanding,

let fly the trigger if it’s been seen before

where that which we vie to keep comes to the grave,

wrapped in the ash and tatters that severs the biography,

clasped hands clinging to visions through a forged glance.


Of every era is that urge to believe

dried blades are made green on the other side.

None questioned if we were seeing grass or growing weeds.

And in taking what cannot be taken,

the best to be seen in autopsy

is what has been unpacked from room to room,

demanded to return out of hindsight’s scope of focus.


Swing back,

load the shot,

slip on control if it’s been known before

that cycles observed repeat if repeated

when no attempt is made to dismantle machinery,

but another shuffle off to white walls,

emptying out secrets,

waiting to reaffirm the emptiness yet to discover.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Crooked Ships Lost in the Night

Penciled arteries are smudged over,

turned too often in shaking hands,

steady once in a simpler, prior era.

Preserved ink is a breath away from shattering,

sentences with the fragility of glass,

details absent seconds after an utterance.


The body abandons first,

as is predictable in passages;

the unfortunate truth of understanding unknowns

beckons with a price tag attached.

It’s the betrayal of the mind that hurts,

never expecting to succumb to blank slate photographs

that themselves will be rendered to less.


It’s the crumbling interior of consciousness,

matter escaping into bottomless drains through cracks in clasped hands.

We may only take so much when we begin to leave,

and palms are made empty come the violent/unviolent ending.


Come back quickly if you could.

Return swiftly if it pleases.

I feel a fear for who becomes the next target,

and I’ve begun to forget your face.

~

( ❤ Mitch)