For the Next Trick…

After the rest,

when the “all else” already fails

as has been proven before,

there’s only a greater fathom still unfathomed,

the depth an augmentation of a lack of reflection

for having never been invited to respective homes.


And in rest,

when the drinks are emptied out

and the masks recede for the night,

we’ve yet to reckon with what caused smashed plates,

the metaphorical we hurled into the physical

while coming undone in plain view.

Smile Wide! We’re All OK!

A price to be put on a life.

Forms shudder at the question plastered on screens

made obvious by a construction society.

From the womb, we come armed,

tongues bared as rifles to evaporate opposites,

mouths primed to be wrecking balls upon poor infrastructure.


Good soldiers tear down the fellow man,

but I was preoccupied with the value behind posturing;

the realm where disguise’s veil cannot cover,

and underneath is an unraveling of being.

I wanted to know identity when the television screen was quieted.

I wanted to witness how heroes came to life,

and how Earhart less a person and more a crash,

where the presence is trivial but the downfall is eternal.


I progress without direction,

possessing a name never spoken,

exiled to ending outside of the margins

where recollection fails to crystallize.

Tragedy is traded as commodity,

seen as a failure of construction society,

but beyond trusting nods and anecdotes,

the product is as intended.


Glory be to those that stumbled upon an expiration date.

Praise be unto our departed,

omniscient overlords of all questions.


Call it criminal to abide yet the clues are burned into normalcy.

The living are a disposable breed.

The living are a disposable breed.

It matters not when one roams and can be met.

Irrelevancy graces all that uncover the emptiness tucked under disguises.

A common heart is an invention of gilded philosophy.

The fellow man is a resource, not a breathing human.


Sold for gratification,

Leeched off for validation,

Abandoned as a husk:

Experience.


It matters not when a heart functions.

The past are cherished well after their passing.

Try to rip gears out of structures but hands become phantoms.

I am insignificance until storied as a loss,

and only then is a price revealed.

( ❤ Mitch)

Congratulations

The recognition is distant,

yet I can promise I am reaching.

Awareness of a lack of faults that I claimed ownership for,

though never being involved.


It’s a span measured in years,

the rings on skin the marks of age

and brushes against the monsters in mirrors,

tiptoeing specters in the hallways

with cold fingers exploiting insecurity.


It’s a span still to be finalized,

though it’s in the process I find the strange truth

that the hatred I’ve felt was never of me,

but a construct of mine.

It’s in the process I find

there was love, after all.

( ❤ Mitch)

Everyone’s Invited

Stop the vagrant irises that glide across my body.

Forget the number you puncture in the twilight.

Leave alone the strung-up emblem of derision.

Be honest in this presence:

I appear golden only if you’re rusting.


Cast out the thought that transitory equals substance.

Retreat to barstools you sit by in crowded solitude.

No more are you to force company out of your inaction.

Be honest, if only once:

I’m only special when you’re not sober.

( ❤ Mitch)

Gone, Again

Reduced to harmlessness without bordering teeth.

Beyond the maw lies the delicately shrouded.

I’m trying to be more than what appears,

but the defenses that lose to the wake have no touch with words.


Brought down to bruised knees in repeating notes.

The scenery is unchanged in the accustomed noise of breakdown.

I’m wanting to be more than a contact list afterthought,

but your lips and your eyes had an agreement with disagreement.


Staring in space filled with small nothings,

the color diluted to blend into the markers of yesterday’s happiness.

I’m striving to see the side of the optimist,

but I’ve been wed to a yesterday several years in the past.

( ❤ Mitch)

What it Means When You’ve Globalized Yourself

She said we arrived too late to try.

Roads have been lined,

their pavement engrained into pictures.

All seas are seen,

the sights have been discovered,

each isle dotted in history.

Wires describe all that was once secluded in far corners,

now adorning every page in a swift stroke.


Flags drilled into the lunar realm.

Aspirations climb to broader heights.

Down without the hope or the green to realize,

the closest to the moon our bodies reach is a fire escape.


To navigate feeble desires rests deep in my bleakness,

hardened by replaying choreography where I sit by the curb,

and quick strikes from marching boots embrace.

Muffled by the debris of demolished imagination,

I see mobile futures beckoning,

be them illusory or potential reality.


Traced across the globe,

voyages marked empires,

crossing waves and continents,

not a stone unturned.

Mapped out so thoroughly do you now see,

yet the illusive dream is untested by conquerors.


No domain has planted itself in consciousness.

Roving eyes defined that which stands before us,

but we ourselves have yet to feel it.

Mountains and canyons are a finger’s reach away,

but we have yet to understand their meaning.


Too late are we now to lay claim to names.

Take a dare on psychology’s shortcomings,

venture boldly into the unknown that’s already known,

though open to the terminology applied through memory.


Tucked in a grove of trees,

a rising hill has always been present.

Upon it as we could be,

dragging an idea into practice,

we create new meaning in old places.

Pestered by lingering ghosts,

allow a dare to flourish.

I can create new meaning

if you let me hold your hand.

( ❤ Mitch)

We All Wake Up

Lost track of the moonlight.

Refracted off departing eyes,

I tossed and turned in glowing dreams,

sensing the staged drama

and knowing its ending.


Lost track of the timing

as an alarm forced slumber,

in siren tones ignored in gloom,

washed over in dull grey

ever magnified by an absence.


Lost track of you

When I called it my reason.

Found comfort in razor cave art

until each image echoed;

waves of sound bearing your name.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dagger Types

Tracing photographs,

armed to the teeth

with colored pencils,

pretending bronze plates

can be overwritten

beyond the black and white.

Outside the veil, it’s plainly seen

the face has yet to change.


Toying with the features recreates the same,

for in an eyesight’s unwavering light,

imperfections expand in view.

With words swinging from tired verse,

I attack the breaks in doctored romance.

Somewhere beneath is the lurking similarity.

( ❤ Mitch)

Hunker Down in Bunker Town

Talking through but words come silently.

Everything is laid out yet still made opaque.

Rafters hang heavy on shoulders sagging from carrying the weight

of a place called home that feels less so when said,

even less when reflecting alone at chronology,

with artifacts of ardor reduced as love letters to dust.


Amassed into a cave of motives sharpened against its host,

you regress into recesses where dried remnants of anguish,

engulfing pale skin as if ice were breaking water free,

now deposited into spires clung to as allies,

scratches on shoulder blades a deserved brush with failures.


The sun is a critical eye.

Stars are camera lenses.

You travel further down to hide.


I match trajectories on paper where we seem to be beside,

tangled and dismantled as circumstance has declared,

strung chaotically together in something that bears fate’s name.

They’ve tossed shattered youth into a desert to teach them how to swim.

Stride or succumb matters not;

it will appear as if nothing was ever done,

and nothing was ever meant.


Sharing findings with a collection of colored shards,

I drew a treasure at the end of a spectrum of chances.

You reached for white and drew a chalk outline.


No company to keep except the thoughts you hate,

yet a part wonders if their presence is key to survival:

Shunning out the world to secure safety.


Evaporating with the ice as what once was greets a clouded horizon,

I’m not protected behind this shield.

I can’t see beyond the edges.

I can’t see where you’ve gone.

( ❤ Mitch)

Papercut War Cries

Breathless, noiseless scream,

pierce the dreaming.

Charge the scene with masked monsters.


Language loses the power of description at that which defies reason.

Crept from a carpenter’s nightmare or mind’s unchecked horrors,

it lumbers into tightening hallways,

a constrictor subduing its prey,

then to vanish into the emerging light of morning,

biding time until the next episode airs in twilight’s playground.


An attempted embrace is a knife’s lunge for the heart.

Immobile faces, silent messages

cascade down a mountaintop to the jagged rocks at its base,

piling trauma on fathoms that stretch ever deeper into repressed dilemmas.

Childhood memories and discarded bumps and scrapes

form the walls of a widening maze.

Hug to the left side and end up where the beginning was.

Hug the right side and all turns equal a wrong.


A perpetual loop of paranoia spills out from an isolated spirit,

and the constrictor’s tightening coil unveils its guise as one’s own hand.

Mistrust the trust for all cards flip to reveal false.

Reality loses value when suspicious eyes blur out the numbers,

transforming hope and affection into a deal descending into the red.


Noiseless screaming can murder a fear for a night,

but it unravels in cosmos,

swallowing up star rays as a self-imposed black hole.


Searched in astronomy and the map is blank,

yet it cannot be denied a beast is loose in a personal galaxy.

Crossing over skies,

enveloping Triangulum,

logic cowers versus its opposite.


Roots run dry daily without the compass of time.

A dead season comes guaranteed.

Forgotten in turmoil is the fiction inherent in a weary head,

yet nothing matters with disease at the controls.


Push away an outstretched arm.

Relapse into redefined confines.

The lying world is said to stay outside,

but it’s never known if it wasn’t inside all along.

( ❤ Mitch)