It Was Enough to be Called Our Own

Hear the whisper of severed chords.

It’s ending tonight.

Innocence disrobed and robbed of excuses,

we stood around the smoldering shreds of a paper town.

Cutout ideas and origami architecture on the bedroom floor

posed a riot against our past selves.

The city outside the window was wrong about us.

In a riot against our shadows,

stamping out heartfelt hard truths,

I swore the taps echoed like poetry,

where we danced in a dream adorned in white.


A trembling hand held in a steady palm

felt a distant isle shrinking in a haze,

familiar made foreign where recognition stood.

Fingers grazing now recoiled

while foraging for whatever was there before.


Our sky of blankets, propped up by youthful assurance

swung by the wayside in our turbulence,

shaking the parchment roof to heel.

We asked for another round of the glass we shared in the moment

when terra burst from blankness,

drew forms on a paper town,

but hope only lasts so long in dried ink and crumbled lines,

and the folded lies come to flourish last.


I swore in the lessening glow

we danced in a dream adorned in white.

In our makeshift metro,

the city was silent at the sight of untangled stars.

It had to crash eventually.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Our Inherent Fiction

See the actor became the liar.

The lessons learned propose a fresh perspective:

adopt gold through sewn doubts

and an image limited to the pen’s mouth.


The great irony comes to play

that when rendered digitally

a mask is only half full,

the glass even less,

with regrets in a cavalcade cascading,

dried anxiety pictured in the ink.


Taken only in the passing of strangers,

there’s no more than a particle of dust on the eye.

No consequences from the gallery.

Internalized by the closer figures,

the better parts portray frustration alone,

abandoning understanding to save their own deaths.


Kept in perfect order, then, when spoken to.

Ambulance sirens call warnings from the profile.

Invisible eyes follow for more;

present eyes leave for less.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

there are no imperfections

I am the concrete sentinel of industry,

manufactured immaculately in Puritan fires.

No complaints from the head of the yoke.

Leave no admission of potential cracks.


I embody the failed experiment of masculinity,

stripped to be only metal and sweat.

Cut the throat’s sound in nervous episodes.

The world cannot hear a male’s scream.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

I am the Enemy, Raise Your Weapon

Ink charred to ash

to scatter about in the ocean

when trying to preserve a winter

where I had lost a sense of self,

and found direction into nowhere lands.


If dust still clings to photographs,

the remnants of words can swim just as well.

These waters can be a home.

There’s no line between where our bone and blood meet

or the difference between the currents and our contents.


Condense the cascade into a buoy

standing upright despite bent backs.

I’m thinking it’s enough to carry for another season

of backwards believing that two pairs of eyes both look back.


Stand upright amidst the roar of a draining hourglass.

The memories are losing your presence.

You become but a ghost.

~

( ❤ 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)

You Forget You

Tasting it in proximal breaths.

This is dangerously within reach.

Conducting the fruit down the vine.

It’s nothing to be proud of this time.


Unchecked as ingested in the bitter pill

left to swallow in a vacant bed,

ashamed of memory’s tattoos

igniting limbs to flail fluently in desperation’s language.


Testing it in brushes,

stray grazes at the edge of sin

absent of substance in it but misguided intention.

You’ll find a way to go too far.

You’ll find the opposite solution out of loneliness.


Is it a thrill to spin it around your finger?                       

See it as a blazing thought to open up the mind’s legs?


It’s nothing to be proud of this time,

but for the imaginary scent

dangerously at the tip of the tongue,

and your wayward lust is salivating.

You’ll find a way to ruin her.

You’ll find a way to ruin yourself.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

He Dresses For Winter

He doesn’t bother to brush it off.

Lets the hair stand up in the strands it woke in.

Considers the long sleeve option,

but stops and doesn’t bother.

Who’s watching out for tally marks, anyways?


An echo to rise to from his belly

in the wake of a reflection’s approval.

Tried the store on the way out

and was too sick to feel sick,

but that’s just par for the course nowadays.


He’s got his eyes locked on balconies.

Spends the minutes crossing off names.

Thinks about “not tonight,”

but he knows he’ll attack what’s left of him.

It’s the most of what he’s worth, he says.


Silent alarm to blare in his mind.

The warnings are clearly prescribed.

But a severed branch falling;

do the others take notice?

He’s not thinking so;

so he goes.

( ❤ Mitch)

Open the Blast Doors

Rip out the cord,

ending the chord of the alarm

ringing incessantly,

purposelessly,

searching for meaning

in its mounting opposition

that threatens to claw,

tearing at its heart

once inherent to one,

now made separate.

And in aftermaths in future,

in visions foreseen

in the idyllic whisps

of coffee room dreams,

the screaming is permitted to cease

and has no floor to stand on.

The supports shudder

and are no longer.

This body moves on.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Young Man Judges Paris and Paris Judges Back

You were always the best at convincing me of my best,

confining me to the dictionary definition of “naïve,”

putting my picture to be read by the watchers.

The wind carries their words on and about

until the bricks in the alleyways are singing the gossip.


It took a while to realize the funny trick you had;

their lips move but it’s your voice they sing out,

reverberating off the architecture you pinned me down in,

so systematically inclining me to lose to your march,

devoted to the steady beat of your footsteps.


It took a while to realize what you could inflict upon

when I gave you the power to inflict it all on me.

I found it poetry when you met our mouths in misdirection

and flooded my lungs with your ocean.

I spent too long inhaling,

turning drowning water into your sweet wine.

( ❤ Mitch)

Score One for the Away Team

So tragic how the body flaps in the wind.

Stretched along the mast,

made a tool of direction,

the gang who holds the helm wills reaction.


A foul front blows through the corridors of the sanctum,

hallways now marred by irrevocable verse and violation.

Steer clear,

grip the walls tightly.

Bet plywood against a hammer’s strike

and the result is another blow to the temple,

a shatter of past ordinary,

a reversal of variable.


Tragic now how it lies in snapped sinew

declared self-inflicted by the glove of the master

for an attempt to arrest confidence,

array it in monuments,

swept clean off the mantle in a careless shove.


Dissected for replacement.

Biology learns to face a new measure

until the tempo loses its satisfaction in inevitable decline.

The ordinary is past,

a change in the wind,

and the body is left to hang low.


The body is hung far.

The body hangs low.

Defeated.

( ❤ Mitch)