Everyone at the Dinner Table was Proud

Unpleasant

scrawled across in cursive,

looping about

to wear as a false halo.

This is the pretense to wear

upon clipping your wings

for another leg up.


Deserved it all,

cast it out,

written it off.

No second looks.


Devils prowl for more prey

to sustain the food chain.

More untruths to sell

as a boy’s shove in youth

manifests its implication dangerously

until sprawled across in bold,

flashing all too brightly.

( ❤ 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.

All the Improper Techniques

And we’ve become green in the face,

not from a flowering sensation

that blossoms in shared tongues twisting in spontaneity.

Becoming ever so green in our eyes

when choked back words are rejected

and our stomachs face an upheaval of swallowed back doubt

rocking about in the acidity of uncertainty

now eroding this tangled ground

where we tried to dismiss concern with enraptured hands.

It’s a speak or die silent scenario.

Release the hatches for the overflow,

or refuse to swim as the passion collects its toll.

Leave the door ajar to let the demons out,

or snap the key in half with our teeth.

It could last the rest of the night.

( ❤ Mitch)

Use Their Name

Enough is said about nothing,

dancing about the subject,

enlarging the object

that then directs all and none,

capturing the attention yet captivating nil.


A stray phrase spears as a needle into a bubble,

and swirling sentences suddenly uncover

a mess that must be addressed,

though our collective common sense does stress:

appease against aggressors at the gates.


Fold to obscure where edges lie.

Lay flat to smother the creases,

leaving the problems gasping for air,

swinging swords to whittle at the exoskeleton,

where mere bone and grit mark the final line of defense,

with wits at an end and control absent by its own intrusion.


Our collective common sense,

not yet uncommon to dispense,

forces belief into wounded boys scraped by stigma,

watching an elephant expand,

birthed from the unsaid, unheard, unseen,

though simultaneously the entirety of above,

written away by normalcy in beer cans,

expired manifestos,

antiquated fortresses,

preaching solitude to an empty crowd,

the chairs shattered by the silent thunder of shotgun shells.


Crowded with a collection of ammunition,

lining the counter with pellets, pills, potions,

subduing through surrender,

where a grave marker is nameless to those passing,

but a number to those reading,

proving the knowledge known but disputed by ignorance.


Enough is said about nothing,

dismissing injury as a love letter to weakness,

advocating for the loudest generation of voiceless,

witnessing screams strike in bolded calligraphy,

red tally marks adorning the wall,

counting the nameless that are rendered thusly by circumstance,

but we recall the meaning behind integers.

Faded in monochrome,

the past is more than a graphic’s siren call,

where dots on a page are grander than infinity,

plotting the poor workmanship that supports hunched backs,

using touted pillars to impose a bent knee.


Succumb and subdue through surrender.

Speak softly for fear of turning backs to the sea.

Stay little for fear of abusing a welcome.

Be staid in circumstance.

Be serene in atrophy.

We describe the meaning behind integers,

but the words find the greatest of misdirects are kept close at home.


Toying around the elephant,

all get ill,

none get ill,

and it is true in every view.

Adrift in the wake,

it was as if no one ever knew what we decided to never know.

( ❤ Mitch)

Every Sense Reads as Impossible

Send a notice if you would.

There’s little else to ask for.

Cease the chase,

remove the climax.

Circumnavigate to ambiguous endings.


I’ve seen withering through growth,

with the wilting of understanding through closeness,

perspectives cluttered in expectation

when language is liquidated,

flowing uncontrollably by tongues fanning flames.


Drench me in the notes.

Splatter buckets across loose-leaf.

If it’s piercing through and the center fails to hold,

write the result as fate and turn gazes away.


It seems poetically inevitable,

but I beg to try,

I beg to test

as if primal will trumps Newton’s fist.

I beg a chance,

I steal a thought,

as if everything we’ll never be can be made to be.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Room Made Quiet

Nearer enough to catch a brew’s scent

dripping off of morning lips

as I’m mourning the value of less

than a drop of this attention’s lack.


It’s unusual in that the worth of nothing expands

in proportion to how the nothing is defined.

Portrayed in flowing gowns,

staged in Broadway colors,

intangible is palpable to a point of feeling

close enough to catch a fleeting touch.


It’s unusual that by noting a crushing sensation,

course is never abandoned rapidly;

that I’d vow cold turkey in bathroom mirrors

before a distorted vision of you reappears,

and I can taste caffeinated scandal

without understanding its meaning.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dead Hope Kids

You crawled out of your shell and cried for the fifth time that week,

cradling the thoughts of departed on a crowded bedroom floor,

wondering if warmth really came from rubbing elbows with reminiscence.

We were sea faring warriors against the waves we made in our eruption,

knowing a collision was demise as depicted in dictionary.


I fought to maintain a light in a dark room.

You wrapped it in pillows to smother it out with the last comfort you knew,

afraid the rays were the eyes of an appointed god barreling thru the front door.

Seen the newspapers in piles where the dates climb forward

but the frame that lies on the ground has yet to age a day.

Folded over are the letters lost to lovers and friends that wept but had no say

when submarines couldn’t match the depth you discovered

far below the capabilities of the ocean’s dreaming.


“Burn it down,” softly spoken voices called

where the colored dots on the windowsill failed to reach

and teach about the lessons of isolation.


You thought to cut it out was to cut to the bathroom tile,

the gray changing hue with the season as the departed returned with falling leaves,

the silver in the wastebin the dead skin you shaved off,

hoping the recollection tattooed on experience was a volcano’s mountainside;

a flood of water and nature would cover the creases,

easing the trembling,

nullifying the quaking

as you’re still shaking at the stray mention of names or places in photographs.


I fought to maintain a light in a dark room.

You wrapped it in pillows to smother it out with the last comfort you knew,

cursing wordlessly at statues forever rooted in your field of vision,

and in the moment where we touched,

I knew I would never be where he stood.


The departed hold the line and you’re always afraid of looking past.

The dead have hands wrapped around your ankles.

“Fall into” the softly spoken voice starts to scream.

“Give into,” the voices are all screaming.

The dead beckon you back.

The dead beckon you back.


With legions ahead in the foyer,

there’s no rescue to the side of your bed,

where you’re shivering in the heat of cluttered memories,

and I knew I would never be where they could be,

and you were never going to be the same.

( ❤ Mitch)

Affirmations

I’m off to understand greater the frontier outside of grids.

Tracing road map signs in cursive loops,

the ways winding about geographical decay,

the arts of cityscapes a bleaker horizon daily.

Reading messages in smokestack signals,

convinced of an image in immolated dreams,

I’m left to try again at things that may never make certain sense,

but in the procession of dating archaeology,

an inch nearer waterfall drops in years,

the climb to experience is our single reminder of humanity.

You could have seen the Grand Canyon,

but never actually seen it in your life.

Putting Blanks in Blank Spaces

Emptiness is a kiss on the cheek,

barely brushing the bone behind skin,

needling at structure too slightly to ever see

until deep in the white is an irreversible knife.

Aching comes as the thought of an embrace;

the gesture unspoken, unwanted,

unknown when confined to literature and portraiture;

alien if never seen or felt.


I remembered it in songs written about anyone but us,

never heard by us,

never known by us.

I remembered playing pretend in the twilight as our sun set,

tracing makeshift constellations with my fingers,

the surface of the sky bending to the will of fable.


It only needs sustenance at the assurance of shared words.

Bled from supposed coping,

now the palette of the storyteller,

let the Greeks romance what I demonstrate miles above our heads.

Codified into the study of condition and fitness,

the character I step into can enter in the alphabet of stars.


Ask a question to challenge it as I find the will to create it:

What if eyes are only as good as our minds,

and fear holds the reins when loosened by consciousness?

These reservations are furniture stains,

stubborn against the methods that work to wipe the woe.


What if a cluster’s lines are not the meeting of intersection,

and parallel lines are what we come to be defined by?

These limitations are the imaginary numbers,

understood as existent but their purpose disputed.


Coy penmanship can replace the blanks of ripped-out pages with equations,

measure distances and trick the answer to zero.

I could see the geometry of you and me in songs we didn’t make,

we never wrote,

we never heard.


You replied without an inquiry to spare,

but the answer to that which was lodged in my chest,

cracked by an emptiness biding its time with an irreversible knife:

It wasn’t that it wasn’t there,

but what was there wasn’t shared,

and it wasn’t wanted.

( ❤ Mitch)

And Now You Are…

In all attempts to retreat from the tide,

I see you turned about to reside in fantasies of watered-down lungs,

bent over in a decomposing spine resigned to thinned marrow.

There’s no hand to snatch an arm going under,

shrugging off the pounding as an expected conclusion’s calling.

And in a calculation of futures real or unknown,

I’d be rather found knee deep and lower still in grains,

standing you up on my shoulder blades as the sentry of your youth

when the best is tried to let it cascade into monochrome.

Like running colors washed down a leaking canvas,

I’m cradling the droplets to fix you again

were it to be possible to arrange the image exactly as it were,

but the paint you’ve chipped away never fit the same.

I remain standing to allow you to stand;

to repair what’s been torn apart to be torn once more,

for I’d sink first before watching your eyes become swallowed by the surface.

It would never fit the same,

but I’d sink fist before witnessing your grave.