You Have Died of Dysentery

Carry the heart away, so said history.

The whispers of wagon wheels professed the value of endless forward motion.

Off west with you to move the floorboards.

Plant stakes in a different guise.

Shake hands with brand new faces.

Each gesture mechanical; a surgical maneuver

to push out the older thoughts.

Dwell somewhere else and dwell no longer.


Dig away at the river bank, so said desperation.

Gilded dreams of faded footprints made a fantasy for a pointless fool.

The result never equals the fable.

Peel away the wooden planks.

Toss a dart on a compass with fingers crossed.

Lay down soil next to new faces

to forget the close, old figures.

Dwell somewhere else and dwell no longer.


Grind away against time, so said ancestry.

Teachings of prior days grounded in uncertain survival bred a cyclical psychology.

Mind never passes through atrium.

Rot is the only constant.

Cut away at memory’s fabric.

Lay out fresh architecture

to block out the old residents.

Dwell somewhere else and dwell no longer.


Fall to sleep across an atlas but topography remains sharp as ever.

Tie yarn around the pins, trace crisscross patterns on state lines.

The pen marks spell out history.


Off east to shift the floorboards over the borders,

treading over the drawings traveled over all the other times

trying to avoid the old haunts.

Repeat every somewhere and dwell ever longer.

Find a new line where the old line already was.

( ❤ Mitch)

From West: Return West

Once again,

it’s just another night like all the other nights.

The sun bowed down and left some time ago,

and I feel different now.


In shadows we all can dwell in our new clothes,

with the darkness cloaking the choices that we want to make.

Dance in line and fall out of it,

only to laugh at the disorder.


These are times of smoke-filled rooms and crowded waste-bins.

Let the haze cloud the ties that hold you back from feeling something.


I am not ready to part with what I’ve made.

I am fearing the change of moving on

where new clothes come with new faces:

Masks designed against recognition; a mental complication.

Leave that home and finally wash out your carpet,

stained with memories of broken glass and loud noises of what we call ghosts.

Do the emotions leak out of the fabric or am I allowed to hold them?


I am not ready to part with what I’ve found.

I am fearing the change of moving away.

If I  alter once more,

shift and again become,

will I forget how one day I was happy?


Too many never know that they mattered so much.

We didn’t talk,

maybe hardly knew each other at all.

But that smile and that nod gave a certain something.


I’m not feeling right,

not right now.

This can’t be a last night.

( ❤ Mitch)