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)

Scream the Pharmacy Blues

Steel greets its wielder.

Cold precision gathers heat in passionate strokes.

It was some time before the prior return.


Prickling problems propagate perpetually.

The self-surgeon traces anatomy in red lines,

dissecting stray letters from lungs as legacy.

Da Vinci takes the wheel

and the poet is strung up, naked, chained,

bound to the paper once disposable

now imbued with intangible meaning,

with the author holding the keys to the locks to his wrists.


It clears a crowded mind to swipe at the rioting thoughts.

A point’s prodding touch comes as mercy,

what the devil’s advocate would advertise as the antidote,

taking measures in scratches.

Inevitable relapse.


A rubber band snaps at the trigger’s pull.

Half-hearted remedies earn only an eighth of grace.

Diminishing rewards,

increasing costs

form a nascent mountain

erupting from flat ground.

Struggle to the apex on the unforgiving surface,

or strike horizontally against the high road,

cheating by recommendation to the masochist’s fix.

The burn is a worthwhile reminder of humanity.


Between crushing realities of failure and forfeiture,

a handful of red lines never caused a tremor.

A searing heat comes as a comforting friend.


Dull bathroom light’s glow

reads road maps in morse code.

Insert to spell grief.

Hit for trauma.

Pain illuminates itself in a mirror’s shame.

A burn wipes the slate clean.

( ❤ Mitch)

Mental Geography

There’s a house by a lake

only in a private head.

Could I let you in by the side?


There’s a life inside.

Rooms to furnish and paint.

Could I see you there?


There’s a place to stay

carved into my hollows.

Could you fit the crater?


There’s a hope to cultivate

somewhere in the fields.

could you feed the light?


There’s a house by a lake

tucked in my own head.

Will I be joined here

or will the waters rise?

( ❤ Mitch)