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)

Dante Didn’t Go Far Enough

Tell it again

exactly how it’s planned

from forearm to cheek bone,

where you’ll lay down an empire of stone,

buried into skin’s fabric

where razor edges cannot grant escape

and a heavy touch comes a weighted reminder.


I watch you sink deeper in my dream hell

poking a pitchfork from floors below

to prod the anxiety to action,

prompting inaction at the doorstep,

seeing a blank parking lot

and the only path taken by its population of you and me,

as I got along a separate way

drinking in the fear of my dream hell

as a disrobed obsession rings the bell,

guiding her off on an odyssey temporary,

providing nothing to chance.


Pulling the plug out of urgency

to drain the pooling jealousy,

knowing now how it’s planned

from frozen toes to ruffled hair

where you’ll construct an empire of stone,

tucked into nooks beyond reaching,

all feeding the nervous engine to splutter

in the depths of my dream hell.


Lurking low in lost landscapes,

it’s an eternal calling card

of a sinking, sad fantasy.

( ❤ Mitch)

Closed-Heart Ventriloquism

We stopped talking about the blaze.

Kicking about in the ashes,

scattering remnants of once-proud timber,

we eliminated all mention about it.

It tracked on the carpet.

Soot stained the sheets.

A day’s shine could clean for a time,

but the thought proved braver than ignorance.

We stopped talking about it,

yet we know it will never leave.

In Viewing What You Could Be

You swore you would not pass the decade line.

You swore you would be enough to stop.

You swore and you swore until words were gasping breaths.


Leave the past behind as has been written all this time

in every trail of prose stemming from a sweeping pen stroke,

claiming this is the last note to be given on the plunge.

When the final page of the ascending moon is locked into a screen

with the key tossed aside to keep a faded identity inside,

is it a desire fulfilled or does it reappear against will?

Is it the only complaint you’ll commit to paper

or will a medicated thought break the ranks

and push down a wandering heart’s hand,

bleeding colors of a promise to be forgotten

but a promise that puts up fists against passing age?


You swore you would cancel the light.

You swore you would ease the aching.

All was said while all along you were swearing a song,

committing trauma to a confined space of brief beauty

kept close to chest, off the cartographer’s eye,

remained as an uncharted second life to hide from the first:

A crumbling stone statue static in storming weather.

Would anything ever move you from that perch

when stubbornness commanded none should dare approach?


You were saying you were lifting a burden

when you drifted off a balcony’s pedestal.

But all that could do was a fleeting flash of a gravitation change

and an enduring mark of the pain that stays the chase.

You swore you would pass away

and you’re fading every day.

( ❤ Mitch)

Testing, Testing… Noiseless Singsong

Blessed be the blessed me

cursed to recreate repeating mistakes.

Blessed be by blessed chance

to squander the stabs at peace.

By the decisive or the circumstantial,

I spin circles with bleeding pens,

searching for endings in spheres,

dissecting a globe for its edge,

half willing and half unwilling in a mind’s ignorance,

having witnessed the self-made flaws

and half loving and half unlovingly drenched them in cement.


Blessed be the blessed me;

the statue in my path.

Blessed be by blessed restraint

to repair the apparently irreparable.

Told to adore through surviving

and idolizing the struggle towards aspiring,

I’m writing off skin marks as a knife’s love bites,

unintentionally intentional as an improvement tool,

deliberate in its use but equated to negative,

yet I am assured to inject fable into math,

confusing the losing side as the breathing side.


Blessed be the blessed me,

returning to revenge versus glass.

Blessed be,

blessed me,

cursed again.

( ❤ Mitch)