Sprint in the Stillness

Engulfed in constancy.

The unwritten intangible

prods at pillars.

Flesh trembles at verbal shells,

sawing courage into dust.

Widening eyes versus narrowing trails.

The aggressor blinks last.

A dropped guard at an ill time,

victimized by decision,

in reverberating consequence for indecision.

Dissolved views,

elusive to grasp,

careening for the gutter.

Crumpled paper ideas.

Bravery reflected in razor packs.

Be it only temporary in sleep,

disequilibrated through conversations in comatose,

grinding teeth restraining a nerve,

dropping weapons for rest.

In this stasis,

rendered obsolete in status,

hemorrhaging to spite paper bandaging.

In this stasis,

all dreams stagger.

Poor reaction of careless construction.

Shine dulled in rust.

True indication of complacency;

a conclusion presumed.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


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)

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)

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)

cRoWd FuNdEd!1! ur voice matters1!!1

Run the numbers.

Dissect meaning.

Reassess.

Address the result.

Assume the lower level.

Descend.

Logic supplies support.

Math purchases the poetry.

Selected, not written.

Made, not felt.

Tailored to expectation.

Examined in red eye microscopes.

Reassess.

Address the result.

Satisfactory.

Unsatisfactory.

Meaningless.

Proceed to the lower level.

Run the numbers.

Victories are hollow.

Losses are forever.

Descend.

Undo in frustration.

Self-made perspective flaws.

Attachment disrupted.

A hand’s motions, alien.

The prose is foreign.

Ownership deprived.

Power be to “they.”

This is eternal.

The self is temporary.

Be disposed of.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Had a Hole Drilled…

“Had a Hole Drilled…”

Had a hole drilled deep into the shaking framework science declared was suitable for progression in life,

notwithstanding the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething in internal, eternal decline,

ushered down the aisle as if a knot of nerves would untie itself when rolling down a rocky bank.

Comprehension is quiet behind the apathetic apathy of drifters posing as guides to lost cities:

Accept a handshake and a tug at the waist as the map and key to where Parime resides.

Confess to the condescending con-population that clutters the confines of isolation,

the painted faces of manakins belying what is under blush and bright red smiles,

set in the position of players that bowed to applause for another trick acted,

sending off the hopeful to hopeless escapades in tangled jungle’s fables:

“There is a greater purpose in promise that needs time to understand.”

Patiently forget the stains of credulous ghosts costumed in flesh.

Writhe about in nightly visitations of oaths snapped as twigs,

forever bereft of the strength it was presumed to possess.

Scramble for capsules arranged on the bedside table.

Vie to congest a widening incision with prescription.

If at its best, the stream is but limited in its scope,

yet never does it cease its eager advancement,

leaking onto sheets and disposed band-aids:

Visible distress despite lurking ignorance,

rigid versus the willfully forgetful mind,

emitting softly, always, in consistency,

slowly emptying what was never full

until all is brought to be of nothing.

Until all is fated to swift decay.

And in an unsuspecting blink,

arising to usual similarity,

it will be made

bare.

Had a hole drilled deep into the cavernous construction of uncharted tunnels leading nowhere to note,

simply the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething extracting to zero the elixir of the past,

singing the memoirs of the blue era for glorifying the loneliness inherent to productivity within art,

beautifying the parallels described as what should be warning signs of approaching instability,

though now misconstrued as the impetus of spinning wheels towards success in hindsight,

for only by collision with crooked motives is there a storied pot of gold to defy history,

where broken bones by the con-population are deserved strikes for battling truth;

the force of finding the lost by abusing the abuse incurred, glancing over trauma.

Nothing that happened was what was considered intended if ever questioned,

but in the gaze of a wounded prey observing arrow’s pricks in the mirror,

pierced defenses are the absolutes to define existence at its minimum,

recognizing finality in chasing the motivation urged in beige rooms,

characterized only by few familiar phrases in recycled delivery,

supposedly serene in sincerity’s saying to promote recovery,

now presently rendered to static rumblings exiting snakes

seeking compensation in a journey’s known conclusion,

no different than the lies of the closest confidants,

the liars, the leaders, the vultures of the desert,

dolled up in suits and dresses over beaks.

Talons poke through fabric’s guise.

Talons poke through framework.

Talons revealed in droplets

as scavengers thus leave

and bones succumb

to decomposition

and then to

obscurity.

Bare.

Doing the Long Jump with Ankle Weights

Reached out too far,

now unbalanced on a beam

looking over into the abyss of cityscape visions.


Empty skeletons

of hollow infrastructure,

naught but a patchwork idea of how it could’ve been.


Iron and fire

molded to structural grace

are bound only by the thin glue of blood.


A touch of rust and a palette’s drained.

A receding figure and schematics shudder.

A flaw is made fatal

in what will have been.

In what never should have been.

In what failed to exist without you.


Dared on chance,

and lost trace of tempo,

drumming clattering to halt at rushing beyond bounds.


Empty skeletons

of vanished imaginings,

disappearing behind the curtain tugged back to reveal what never is.

In what will have been.

In what never should have been.

In what failed to exist without you.


Through a lens from faraway if you’d explain it so,

shoot a message across the distance with an arrow’s precision.

Cut it down where the body hangs from the balcony,

straddling the divide between the perserverance and the deliverance.

Toppling to one side to the wayside equates a familiar loss.

Dead and dying on either path of the question’s mark.


If I’d known better I would’ve manufactured dire weather

and remain ingrained in grains of atomized ideas.

A concept finds demise in writing when handcuffed to drawing.

Quiet motions dictate what words would never provide on their own.

Closed lips are shells that resonate over desolate,

echoing in the corridors of ghost town architecture.


A concept finds demise in writing when its meaning is limited to paper.

If we never act it was it ever really there?

Was it there?

Were we there?


In nights where vulnerability is inevitability,

I wonder if it’s possible if thoughts are spent on me.

If insecurity comes to plague stability,

are you visited by our doomed ventures to reinvent gravity?


Torched in a metropolitan’s dead skin,

littering the scarred pavement,

airplane debris is arranged into an obelisk,

taken as the prize of a futile empire,

stood tall in the town square

where all my shards are laid bare.


Art testifies to the tests of psychology,

dotting droplets of paint into the gaps of anthology.

In experience it has been seen why the act of releasing a grasp causes pause.

Reaching out too far risks imbalance.

If not concrete, visions are but imperfections of eyesight

for arching past the scope of melancholia’s inhibitions.


Ruins are that which exist in mind,

in sight,

yet out of both,

unattainable,

but close enough to cling to believing.

( ❤ Mitch)

Poetry and Honesty

Choose carefully.

Spoken unwisely,

imperfect phrases are bare as they are,

faulted in of themselves,

destined to depart in the conscious of instant gratification.


A bottle’s flood tells too much,

and when written in restraint’s absence,

an author’s dried ventricles are spent and nothing is meant.

The locked chest deals everyone out a key,

trading glances about a plastic face knowing its lack of veracity.


Loom over the artist in the glass,

begging for the aftermath,

playing games with what-ifs as tension swells in tumultuous waves.

Drop a curtain on a Hitchcock drama and away goes suspense.

The person and the pen scurry from their reflections,

strangers to one another.


To venture from the looking-flask or demand its silence

comes short of answering any inquiry to a vessel’s schematics,

as encased in continuous trauma as it now rocks,

could it or should it ever let its creaking floorboards be heard?

With rusted nails unhinged around every bend,

Noah hung his head at the inelegant schematics,

drifting in from imaginary to meet creativity’s fleeting fantasy;

two dreams meaning too much,

equaling to less in evaluation.


It’s never honest with myself yet too close for comfort.

Words conjure imagery but the memory is disintegrating.

All is chosen cautiously haphazardly.

The sole truth is a bottle is broken,

a flood is brewing,

and a captain drowns.

( ❤ Mitch)