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)

Precipice

A disconnect imperceptible

breaching.

Quiet atmosphere under duress.

Suppress, suppress,

try to impress the mirror.

Sideways glares say “you’re nowhere near.”


The separation infinite.

Abyssal.

Snarled nerves violently untie.

Deny, deny,

speak to life every lie.

Distant shores murmur “you’re even further from gone.”

( ❤ Mitch)

Have You Tried Turning It Off and On Again?

To any length shall it go to validate abuse.

Deluded as it’s come to wed one to misuse.

Tired of apathy but seeing only empathy

when rehearsed phrases hurry from Hollywood mouths.


An award to give for the perfect showing.

Never could find out beyond the façade’s displaying.

Tired of mimicry but knowing only authenticity

when you’re the star of my least favorite twilight dramas.


To any length I’ll go to rationalize excuses;

that the best of me deserves acquired bruises.

Weary of all the things said and never done,

but seeing clearly how it’s all I’ve ever known.

( ❤ Mitch)

Disinterred

Caverns of being yawning,

breathing,

living,

experiencing the stress;

inhaling,

exhaling,

expiring silently.


A lantern for the canary.

Ashes flutter back,

reverberating off collapsing walls.

Mouths agape close naturally

with clogged lungs deprived.


Exhumed

bird skeletons

shrouded in smog.

Still it’s pretended the answer is unknown

when the answer is a mutual fear.

( ❤ Mitch)

Yelling “Timber!” at a Dying Tree

The house has yet to change its shape.

Vines bide their time as the roots of recollection weasel under the floors.

Painted over in a future will never erase passion.

There was handiwork in basement fantasies.


In being careless with time and the fleeting strength of youth,

I tripped along the planks and a drop of blood was anchored;

what was spent cannot then be purchased back.


We hid our best selves under the stairs in the cupboard.

“Don’t let us out, we’re too scared.”

For if they creep out under the crack in the door,

we may be forced to recognize our collision

and the fire toyed with in the fragile fingers of innocence.

It balances on a cliff’s edge in dagger eyes.

Jump off the fear and plunge inside.

Unearth the thoughts so tightly buried.


Do you reconcile now or shall it fester in the hours burning twilight down?

With a fading vinyl record scratching itself to razor marks.

the groaning of the turning reads out a forlorn letter.

Do you face it down now or shall it wait for meetings you promise to make?

But they never wander into a calendar’s page.


Carved in triptych it can’t be seen from an outside view;

a single blemish in a valley

where the rain never touched the yellowing plain.

Caught in details I always know,

where my imperfections lie on top and below of skin.


As if a continent split itself across oceans while burning life,

I see parts of assurances drift to turbulent waves.

Go bravely into the Atlantic to chase them,

but I’m always drowning in the meaning without ever clearing from theory:

the concept of math that we shattered to bits when our whole was in negative.


Do you reconcile now or do you let it sit as dust on a window’s ledge?

Never wiped clean of footprints from testing the height.

You won’t be sleeping soundly tonight.

Do you face it down now or claim awareness of fault when the faults are repeating?

The reel never closes its lens.

Shows that stop somehow never really end.

( ❤ Mitch)

Obstacles & Obstacles

Fire and brimstone take the wheel of imagination.

Let the devils claim the hindmost of the ensuing turmoil.

Shaken at a crumbled conscious’ failed foundation,

the saints come marching dressed in decades-old clothes,

not a day aged since captured in memory’s stone,

committed to fantasy where demons are blessed friends,

true colors henceforth cloaked in rosy-sweet prose,

thus shifting the villain to that of the writer’s own hand.

Two halves are made split between hope and concrete,

Rodin portraying agony in its barest form of observation,

with opaque faces aligned on an opposite shoulder

cast as the Greek deities to lord over tragedy’s incessancy,

aglow in marble’s beauty—a philosopher’s Trojan Horse,

for the most dependable and clearest of the given moment

never fail to be those to draw blades foremostly,

sucking dry the emotion host to reap rewards of attachment,

as the carcass is forgotten under decades of clay.

Two halves be split between a reality’s curse and wistfulness,

wishing traitors to be the friends promised prior

or at the least a lesson from which to grow as a redwood,

taller and stronger to fight back against an axe’s blow.

Yet the curse of reality dictates learning is never guaranteed.

An education in trauma comes without certain victory.

The Greek deities of melancholic prose or hateful poetic rants

come to the forest armed with bulldozers aplenty.

Caught in a divide where fractions of being are cut cleanly through

and neither perspective can be known to the other,

ensuring nostalgia will reign over insecurity’s sprawling domain,

and two halves be split to never adequately meet.

Stillness is Irrelevance

I’ve lost count of the tallies.

White walls turned black.

Poster board,

unadorned memorabilia;

souvenirs of expired purpose

that suck the dust from the room

and bear it with shame on their shoulders.


Brushed away

and I’m not sure what I’m seeing.

Cleaned and bare,

but I don’t see what was once in there

and I don’t know if I am here

or just spinning in a quicksand bedroom.


Never leaving; never really wanting to.

Drawing lines down

where numbers rob themselves of meaning.

( ❤ Mitch)

Our Fair Friend Under the Weather

Fraying,

full of fault,

the needle tangled in its own design.

Tugging at the touch exacerbates the holes,

their insignificance poked in across months, unnoticed,

coming to bloom out of the mind’s eye,

where their prior meaninglessness is magnified.


Unravel now to spill it out

or tuck it inside a crowded cupboard

threatening to buckle under its baggage.

I’ll dim the lights so you won’t see the damage.

I’ll shine a ray on the most perfect fragments I can gather,

wipe them clean and wrap them in a bow,

making rubbish into ruby.


If the right effort is swung into,

I can be a Michelangelo’s star,

formed out of rugged birth into a resurrected idol,

never cowering in crowded rooms or sneaking down alleys

in search of a fire escape’s ledge or tantalizing edge.


With my effort placed instead,

I draw my fate up in circles,

where the start is at the impetus of perpetual abandonment,

and there’s a constant loop back into eventual disappointment,

be it by my shaking hand or the forceful one of another.


Worried glances portray a sense of anxiety

that I find myself bearing as a globe,

supporting expectation of a reality where my lungs are stable.

Worried glances are spent far too often.

The last thing I hope to see is for joy to seep out of their sight.


Stay inside the shelter as I march into a storm.

Hold fast on the ropes tying down to home.

Maintain position in the long procession onward.

Waver not from opportunity just to waste it on me.


The snow batters against this world we hold up,

and it’s slipping under the frame thought to be held so tightly.

Stay to drown in biting frost that festers in every day.

Take heed to run and leave one promise:

That as I march into a storm, bracing at the door,

cease thought and commit to action.

Commit to action away.


As I march into a storm, through the door,

I will only be some time outside.

Protect your worried glances.

Retain the light inside.

I will only be some time.

( ❤ Mitch)