The Highest of Honors

Evicted from

mind, body,

a prison each,

the highest of honors hence afforded.

Deprivation

of hardware,

hardly aware

this is the highest of honors to reach.

All parts,

separated,

discombobulated,

are forever beneath what could be,

but fails to exist beyond imposed boundaries.

Where the ends and beginnings meet ever obscured.

Graves Line the Bedroom

Spiraling along the edge;

the B-side of a friend.

Isaac Brock confesses in parting

that which is close is fake.


Plucked off the rim by the retreating needle,

thoughts are tossed into the air,

intermingling with the particles,

obscured by dust, dead skin and doomed intuition.


Naked now with words disrobed,

a scratched silence is begged to cease,

tugging versus the departing soundscape

where nocturnal dwellings greet familiar forms,

shaking hands with make-believe

to shift out the cardboard cast.


Any face in the row was a liar.

Any face in the row spoke two ways.

Two throats uttering two sentences,

two meanings in one sequence

with one truth and one unkind truth

never said correctly.


I deem it fate:

A miniature Icarus is snagged in a butterfly net

away from waves of notes

where songs carry a sense of ease.

Tousled in a snare,

put before the crowd bare,

declared empty at auction,

gaveled out to under known geography

but off mental grids,

detached from cardboard wiring.


And it never comes about

and it never comes out

until shoulders begin to sway

where once sat a mountain,

foliage now drawn asunder

and an emptiness says nothing.


It never comes clear.

It never comes out

until no call is ever met

and no names are left to check.


Spin as you were

and spin as you will

In a hollow grip that stings true

yet without a force behind;

only an actor’s grin

as they shuffle to memory

with the pain of their stay never hanging on their day

though forever imprinted on bumps and scrapes

when trying to claw the sight of them out.


Ringing voices

whispering that these choices

are vested to self-destruct,

manifested into bumps and scrapes

when trying to claw the presence out;

to forget the friend you weren’t;

to blame a perceived weakness in myself;

to die in a cocoon in vaguest desires

I never am haunted by this repeating loss.

( ❤ Mitch)

Unfortunate, to be the Fault

To fail forwards on a single message,

I am wed to be at beck of your convenience,

my expectations consequential to your command.

And in tracing steps in rubble,

no footprints match your own in dust and discard,

as if I were but a passenger to this obedience.

Outlined in rags is where my reflection lies

when understood in the veins of your demand,

crawling to craft snow angles out of fragments.

Failing ever far forward for futile fables,

I am awed by the absence of convenience

when my own messages are unheard.

You’re Officially Yesterday’s News

On the other side of reflected frames,

I’m wondering if my body is stood where it’s seen

or if I’ve been caught in a wake’s drift,

tugged into somewhere seen in imagination alone

where there are coffee stains on the table and soft lighting,

laughing out strings of stories from unchecked time

as two travelers color in empty frontiers kept hidden in passing years.


From a seat at the table,

I’m wondering if you’d open to see the opposite end of an eyeglass,

or if a locked edifice would be the lasting impression I’m to be given.

Performing a manic dance simply for that tangible glance sneaking out of reflected frames,

the rhythm played out to an expired tune damned off a heartbeat’s radio,

humming dully to the pace of an accelerated rate;

the same graces I learned copying your ballet,

where I’d brush against and feel a key slip into my breast.


The clutter in my pocket’s rusted to an indecipherable mess,

and in its indifferent stare there was I likeness I feared to see,

as if my body was stood in the palm of my hand

but my mind was bailed into a life boat,

coasting on the edges of Bermuda to find truth in a dead end,

scouring myths for reason when the facts are confined to numbers,

and in between the odds and evens is an eternal gray where no answer reaches.


Where to would you have me tap on your memory?

On the other end of reflected frames,

are you to block me off the stage

with the diminishing reverberations of our tangled skin the sole ring?

Are you to push my body back to where its mind rests,

nestled in the embers of a soothing remembrance,

where any hint of your looking my way feeds the coals?


I’ll tend to this camp until the monitor is out of tune.

I’ll try to shake the debris out of my head.

Your rhythm remains trapped inside.

( ❤ Mitch)

Now is the Part Where I Disappear

Words are blameless in their form,

yet heavy fall the wrong phrases when spoken.

In graceful descent come those desired,

all dependent on quiet agreement

met between the eyes.

Diving off of tongues,

boldly forward forage words in their form,

and when discovered in time that no agreement is made,

blame falls at their feet,

for fear of recognizing the fault of me.

Another Audition for the Role of the Antagonist

Spin the wheel.

Patiently await.

There’s a clip of silver bullets tucked into a winning slice.


Wash those weary eyes.

Give it another go,

with inquisitive eyes shining down a microscope’s narrow focus.


I can feel searing overhead lights drilling a hole in my shields,

unburdened as I’m strapped at the ankles,

floundering above the waist while tilted down a bottle’s throat.


Spin the wheel.

Patiently await.

Hand me a magic gun for the vampire in my chest,

sipping on the fluid that pumps thoughts through gates

where a Dracula sits as a guard to synapses,

wine glass in his hand while striking up a rebellion along the train tracks,

any passing note of optimism careening into a widened pit

as inquisitive eyes narrow their faces,

direct out finer lies to conquer races,

serving pats on the back for another husk down the rabbit hole,

tripping along a hamster wheel with a reaper at the rear,

looking for a habit to instill;

a hope to steal.


Uncertain shuffling.

A mind muffling.

A dose increasing.

But all I want is to be free

and meet who I’m told to be.


Slide over a glass of nerves.

I want to have what my mind deserves.

All I want is to understand how I’ve come out of bed,

each year on a wrong side,

no matter front, back, left, right,

never finding a prescribed light,

cramming moods into a jar cluttered with impulses

and the tools of negative compulsions.


Slap a strip of tape over a tsunami’s door,

trying to will oceans into a time out corner.

They’re lapping up to my toes,

granting knowledge of impending throes,

loaded and cocked back in a plague doctor’s syringe,

irises blank as a leech and teeth of a tiger,

gauging a prey from the stumble of their gait.


Spin the wheel for a chance to feel.

Spin the wheel and make another deal.

Don’t forget to keep up on the bills.


I would never be me and I’m giving my best shot at it,

aim stuck at the ground,

firing blanks into soil to shovel off the dirt

and prepare for what medication has started.

I could never be me and I’m giving it my best.


Don’t worry; I’m over it.

It won’t last forever.

Say prepared goodbyes; I’m through with it.

It can’t last forever.

( ❤ Mitch)

Choreographed a Step Out of Time

Take me to task on the chin,

whispering “what do I owe you?” through chipped teeth.

I’ll tend to the debt I’ve incurred,

reset the balance that’s brought you swinging

if only to keep the calm when you’re around.


Drag me aside to scream my confidence away,

blaming for what I’ve owed when my pockets are empty,

but I leave feeling full of liability.

Break it down to paper and the parallels will defy themselves

for the signals I’ve positioned so to pour on your pride.

That’s the story that’s told for when I sour your insides.

Must have been a fault of mine.


This room becomes the surface of the sun in a poor glance;

a wasted chance to connect

turned to a faded memory to file away in our biography,

the ending typed into the beginning and repeated every page,

but I felt something different in the first sentence,

and when I fumbled over the punctuation and delicate language,

I called it nerves in the presence of a praised critic,

their beauty demanding performance akin to Hercules,

slaying that which came in the way to prove an unself-worth.


The time when you bent me over the t’s and the spikes of the i’s,

I called it a pleasure to be in the arms of a grace,

sensing attachment never picked before,

guising the aches in my veins as a bond to fight for.


Coming into myself means coming into you,

and I shake in soaked clothes from a redirected storm,

bruised lips asking “what do I owe you?” to a brick wall.

Indifference shines back.


It feels like the best bad dream,

in the presence of an absent hand,

hoping to earn its fingers.

The only cost is whoever I am,

left limping off to sunsets without a triumph to blare;

only the impassive sun’s glare.

I call it a love and all I’ve managed to deserve.

I’ve only ever wanted to call it a friend.

( ❤ Mitch)

Subtext

Did it come as a tragedy

or the expected knock you wished wouldn’t arrive?

where then does the echo find you?

now consumed by the wanted unwanted company of thoughts,

feeling their daggers softly squeeze into matter,

all unclear visions sacrifice luster,

losing light to the absolute of pitch black.

love knew a soul was waiting but found a closed door.

Hush Now! The Boy Tries to Speak

Sprawled out across a graphic of every choice,

the roots crisscross across a chronology linked deep into veins,

every spot pocked through a dot on a line,

trudging offstage right where a darkened hallway awaits.


If each limb could speak to me now,

they’d tug back to where they called home,

having warped around the infrastructure of discarded dreams,

their endurance unfaltering when sustained by the currency of dilemma,

inventing the reasons why they should thus remain,

erupting in a mass of ironclad vines.


Lay down a torch to one route and the next is widened:

A hydra of my decisions as influenced by the currency of dilemma,

wishing the problems away while convinced their presence is my strength.

That strength sits at a nondescript desk in a crowded space,

not a single face from which a trace can be made to remembrance,

reduced to the atoms of imagination;

blank and grey with only rehearsed words to utter.


My strength rests his head down on a nondescript desk and forms a waterfall,

using the edges to cascade over the currency of dilemma,

feeding the pooling struggles,

providing nutrients for their grip,

warping around the feet of the table now firmly conquered in discarded dreams.


The strength of me comes to shrink as blank, grey faces usher it to a brink.

I bear the insults of those same phrases as though coded in universal language,

inked as a permanent stop on a passage of a life;

the tattooed stigma of never getting over ‘it,’

where the ‘it’ is among thousands of ‘it’ cropping up in legions,

smirking at futility when a rash hammer’s blow brings more to the show.

I bring down this gauntlet as if the truth I always needed

in attempt to preserve that which acts as my blood.


Though laid so vulnerable at a desk that shifts rooms

until the setting around is a senate’s stained floor,

I accept the knife wounds of wayward words as a testament to me:

To this so-called strength I’ve accepted.

To this allowance of abuse I’ve consented.

To be a number sliced into a quarter of its worth.

To turn nothing prematurely.


The swarm piles into a tower arcing miles above bloodied tiles,

using the cracks to draw a picture of adolescence,

submitted to the ensnarement of screaming vines.


You are the undergrowth dragging me down,

tucking me under a carpet of leaves,

sheltered from the rain captured by taller branches.

You are no strength to draw from the past,

nor the weapons of words that were cast.

You are a voice inside of my head

and nothing more can be given to your power.


I am he that developed from mere gas and dust,

introducing ignition to dry up a waterfall’s rampaging current.

I do not sit in the place where I began.

I do not gather strength from the mistakes I have made.


Their false embrace is a burden to wear,

but it grows slightly softer as the timeline marches onward,

walking by a desk in discarded dreams,

traversing plains not yet seen

where the path is never littered with weeds.

( ❤ Mitch)

Walked to a Cliff to Walk Back

The choice had been robbed from me

in obscurity of emotional insecurity.

Shades drawn with the chill of the freezer leaking,

the silent film dotted the room in the stains of coping,

not once overheard for voices were kept low,

confined to a grimace come every instance where edges turn vibrant,

playing savior to deprecation,

lining up limbs in row to tally off each show,

ran on the daily for the unavoidable episode,

yet still in the quiet with shades drawn,

a freezer leaking,

a grimace concealing.


In the collision of circumstance when years removed,

the screen possesses a mind of its own,

refusing stray blows to succumb to silence,

bending but unbreakable to an assault from over the counter.

No sleight of hand can transform memory

or the remembrance it offers as written upon my skin,

defying orders to sink below to match a brighter color

even when a call for a future beckons greater than before.

I’m consigned to a willingness to write the conclusion.


Though stood with steadiness in appearance,

the movements I make cause a constant quake as I try to forge away,

the shockwave soldiers crusading to sack the soul.

Peeling back the blinds lets only a sliver in

to melt away the ice age left to flourish in isolated confines.

It’s barely enough to call a progression to uncertainty,

but when rising from the bed and feeling water grace my toes,

I feel a slight assurance

that one day my dreams may beat my fears,

and march a fragment of me across the decade line.

Then one day I may make my dreams

from make believe and into an open door,

roaring through halls on a rushing river,

for the one day I may win against my fears.


And one day the screen will flicker to black,

and in a blank reflection I’ll be caught shouting in color,

wrapped so tightly in the coil of a razor,

damning the urge to a depth below soil

where the buried remains of coping lay.

And in that embrace, I will shrug off the restraints,

And place no hope in a knowing dead end,

for I’ve found courage in uncertainty,

where the day will come where I win against my fears

and never be caught silent again.

( ❤ Mitch)