In Viewing What You Could Be

You swore you would not pass the decade line.

You swore you would be enough to stop.

You swore and you swore until words were gasping breaths.


Leave the past behind as has been written all this time

in every trail of prose stemming from a sweeping pen stroke,

claiming this is the last note to be given on the plunge.

When the final page of the ascending moon is locked into a screen

with the key tossed aside to keep a faded identity inside,

is it a desire fulfilled or does it reappear against will?

Is it the only complaint you’ll commit to paper

or will a medicated thought break the ranks

and push down a wandering heart’s hand,

bleeding colors of a promise to be forgotten

but a promise that puts up fists against passing age?


You swore you would cancel the light.

You swore you would ease the aching.

All was said while all along you were swearing a song,

committing trauma to a confined space of brief beauty

kept close to chest, off the cartographer’s eye,

remained as an uncharted second life to hide from the first:

A crumbling stone statue static in storming weather.

Would anything ever move you from that perch

when stubbornness commanded none should dare approach?


You were saying you were lifting a burden

when you drifted off a balcony’s pedestal.

But all that could do was a fleeting flash of a gravitation change

and an enduring mark of the pain that stays the chase.

You swore you would pass away

and you’re fading every day.

( ❤ Mitch)

Testing, Testing… Noiseless Singsong

Blessed be the blessed me

cursed to recreate repeating mistakes.

Blessed be by blessed chance

to squander the stabs at peace.

By the decisive or the circumstantial,

I spin circles with bleeding pens,

searching for endings in spheres,

dissecting a globe for its edge,

half willing and half unwilling in a mind’s ignorance,

having witnessed the self-made flaws

and half loving and half unlovingly drenched them in cement.


Blessed be the blessed me;

the statue in my path.

Blessed be by blessed restraint

to repair the apparently irreparable.

Told to adore through surviving

and idolizing the struggle towards aspiring,

I’m writing off skin marks as a knife’s love bites,

unintentionally intentional as an improvement tool,

deliberate in its use but equated to negative,

yet I am assured to inject fable into math,

confusing the losing side as the breathing side.


Blessed be the blessed me,

returning to revenge versus glass.

Blessed be,

blessed me,

cursed again.

( ❤ Mitch)

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.