Observations in a Sea of Dead Saplings

Fighting to let your trunk grow tall.

Carving a place in the deep dark light.

Suckling on the touch of gin won’t offer purchase in the soil,

yet a fleeting vagrant took the role of the sun.

Drips from his bottle leave behind a garden of graves.

There’s no shovel big enough to unearth a semblance of solace.

I’ve got the warning signs of history etched into,

and I weave it into parchment as a message for your heart.


My body is the map of dead-end dilemmas,

the conduit for a misguided rage,

cutting holes and folding over creases to invent nonexistent escapes.


My body is the map to follow as I unravel.

The canyons of handheld glaciers are a lesson in twisted geography.

There won’t be profit earned from willing flaws into existence.


Sitting in depths where arms cannot reach down,

you’ve penned the story prematurely,

using words to paint a self-portrait of a target:

The Kezia of a rampant apathy that drains its passengers,

dropping off the remnants in a junkyard.


Are you proud to lay in a garden of graves?

Is it a pleasing fate to let another feast on your rays?

Has it been wasted time to stretch out surgically for a gaze

that saw nothing but a passing billboard sign,

driven by and never noticed?


Starring over scarification that endures through cycling years,

I wonder if it lasts forever as an artillery shell’s cave.

How far and long the struggle has gone,

and it doesn’t mean a single thing yet.

How far and long you’ve started to slip,

and I find no solace in any of it.

( ❤ Mitch)

They Crave Only Her Skin

Carved up.

Hung out to dry on a winter’s branch.

He’s not going to come back around.


The hand that caressed so gently

held the surgical precision that exercised so slowly.

He’s not going to come back around.


Grasping the snowflakes of memories.

They melt on contact when desperate urges lash out,

too brittle for a bandage to blockade against the knife’s turn.

There’s always a hope from a fading lantern’s glow

as the lightbearer faints under the weight of their guise.

The cloaks pulled down show the hidden faces of the dear ones.

Words snake about to snare a riding hood,

dressing up as smiles that never bear meaning,

with an apple in their sights ripe for the picking.


Stranded in the snow.

Drowning silently.

Carved up without a lung to scream with.

Carved up and wishing for a hunter to reverse its shot.


Those eyes paint a portrait of lust beyond your frame.

Ashes eat away at recollection.

Dust will not hold a name in a sea of falling snow.

He’s not going to come back around.


An arrow is drawn taut and fired true.

The shields in its path bow out of step for a finishing blow.

Dream in the grip of seasons with crimson coloring the ground.

It is already off and away to the next vessel to strip.


Disposed in a forgotten triste.

Carved up.

Consumed.

Left empty in the breeze.

Not a thought will be spared for the scene.

( ❤ Mitch)

Dreamhouse

Refusal of a farewell to picket fences.

Adjusting the metrics of memory to compensate for loss.

Exclude present thought for a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

a past fit only for dolls.


Dressed up in expectations expired,

luring in for discovery with bright walls and passion calls,

visiting rooms of unborn embodied by industrial recollections.

Current views through the mirror scrape off the paint.

Relevancy infuses disease into the bones of a home.


Out of state to the rhythm of children’s footsteps

as they rove about a dreamhouse fit for ghouls;

inhabitants fit in a vision of us

that died in a closed door,

severed phone conversations;

hurried steps from the imaginary.

( ❤ Mitch)

Under an Unmarked Headstone

Recall the taste of mulch.

Tumble down at a show of force.

Wandering fingers twitch at the feeling of familiar dirt.

Does it linger there in the backstage

where the looking-glass man cowers in bandages,

tied tight to trauma it never knew was there?


The playground barons and the pavement kings

camp out in the hippocampus with a smoldering fire.

Sixty dollar checks direct a hose to the scene;

they pick up their belongings,

shift to an elsewhere,

lighting a recollection when nothing can brace the shock.


Shove off masters of the belt as conquest begins,

a fake Napoleon spreading flags across the continent of consciousness.

Bounce off to out of sight, ought of mind,

and his unrequited rage reflects back in lost hours of sleep,

soldiers digging trenches under eyelids

where the scarification of skin fails to heal lingering craters.


Does it remain never-fading?

Does it still come as the arctic cold,

racing across the spinal cord as a torrid freeze?

No shield protects the skeletal frame from crumbling under its head’s weight,

bearing the brunt of remembrance it cannot withstand.

The lashes at night are no longer a dream.

The faces that torment no longer cease.


Shiver at night with no mouth to speak,

and nothing remains but a voiceless scream.

Nothing to be done except play roulette with pill rounds.

Turn it over and over and over again.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Boy, in Parts

Truth comes foul

when the comfort of falsehood

loses footing in reflection,

geometry proven irregular in critique

with wanting eyes plowing for faults.


Unsustainable, the boy mutters,

tripping over cigar ash smiles

and knife hugs.

Dead-end motives

seek the next trial

to fall first, headlong,

losing by default in absent glances

where lust swings wild,

its direction uncaring for appearances

like cigar ash smiles

and knife hugs.


Unsustainable, the boy mutters,

enraptured by the rupture

cleaving through action and reason.


Desire comes aimed for the aimless;

quick fix dilemmas.

Lipstick scars

bandaging the whispers of displeasure

until withered

as plastic roots undo,

support decayed in reflection

when wanting eyes see only “no” as an answer.

( ❤ Mitch)

Affection in the Age of Wiring

A brightness permeates in a shadowed room.

Another sleepless twilight beckons from beside the bed.

The next flash could be a sign.

The next flash could be a chance.


Sound pierces a quieted space past midnight’s hour.

The morning crawls into view a second too soon.

I’ve yet to rest when sleeping on a cliff’s edge.

I’m waiting for the next message you’ll never send.

( ❤ Mitch)

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)

The Water Rushes In

In what view will you be seeing me in today?

The lens cycled through place the saint and its rival in the same space,

but in any fixture, I’m always one and the same behind the glass.


Against any better thought, I chase your lure around the bed,

tracing the tail of sin some nights before you put me in a different light,

injecting blame or hope when I’m wanting nothing more than to comfort your worries

or caress the hand of another.


I’d yearn to be glamorous,

but I’m stuck in another man’s glow

making me appear like secondhand clothes

passed down to you damaged and torn.

There’s a perfect heart-shaped hole in the breast of my shirt,

and I’m filling it up with the glass shards you handed to me from your mess

after falling too hard for the urge of a familiar venom.


A jagged piece tinges my insecurities every time I reach out,

for whenever you brush against me, I’m feeling everything,

but you’re only feeling like it’s him.

A single collision of fleeing bodies discovering a kiss in a car crash:

It feels like a world to me in all its hurt and all its triumph,

for I was able to take part in it all,

but I watched with glass shards in my hand as you went back to remember him.


Please leave me out of your sight if you don’t intend to take any of mine.

This calls from the precipice your finger points me down

as quickly as it beckons me to run back to your den.


Knowing no better, I leave an apartment open in my head,

knowing you’ve already made that bed as he’s knocking on the door.

No fee is needed for I know your lure will stay its place,

for I always knew the love I had for only you.

I was concentrated on a better part of you that wasn’t poking holes in my chest.


Had any care been given to assess the scene,

see a sight that wouldn’t ever find a level ground,

a daring ship captain would never flail about in danger,

seeing an iceberg approaching yet believing it to be only a papercut on the horizon.


I wasn’t ever looking clear.

I was yearning to be glamorous.

But you’ve traded me down like secondhand clothes,

set to rest on a shelf damaged and torn,

always in the range of your apathetic gaze.

( ❤ Mitch)

Sisyphus Cringed

This place reeks of the smell of passing nights

and the stray stains of mistakes that sprout ghosts from the carpet.

The roots stack high to the ceiling.

Scale the vine and at the top there’s the same giant to find.


Floating back down to a coffin made out of bedsheets,

only to bounce straight back to the stratosphere of fear once eyelids shut.

She’s got her hand reaching out whenever the cold air is near,

prying each ear open to bottle up the same words inside.


I built a glass house of pill bottles and razor blades.

Glued it down top to bottom with currency.

A stray rock towards balcony’s perch and imaginary Maginot crumbles to dust.

The smell remains festering in the cracks.

It’s entrenched in the empty prescription crevices hungering for a weed to grow.


This place reeks of the smell of passing nights

and the promises screamed at a frail, broken frame,

wondering how limbs diminished to sinew.

At the peak of the white walls there are only more corridors;

a prison complex dressed up in memory as if it held certain truth.


The labor of slicing nascent dread from the climbers dulls steel and costs pounds.

Sisyphus took gauge of the scene and cringed at the fray,

for the veracity of mythology merged with misguided steps of history

bear common eyesight of circadian faults.

In the well of every hope is the knowledge that she’ll be reaching back,

and if there’s an interlude in the charade, the brutal touch will be craved.


It takes the pushing and shoving of plates to brew temper into action,

and nights have since passed where motion regressed to an unknown nothing.

The crust has sunk into a ball of gases that speaks in individual tones,

said “Adam was a cheater and Eve was a liar,

take solace to the grave for happily ever whenever.”


It’s staged in the drama of peeling walls.

It’s tattooed across the miles of dead skin.

I can smell it as the moon bows for the morning,

and it sits in its place be my sight conscious or wandering.


So I’ll cheat by the pills and pay their tolls,

singing songs over the telephone line that the medication is working fine.

Right at the time the giant is reaching down I’ll laugh in its face.

Her power is nil, my power is hers,

and beckoned on command I fall flat into cold air.


This places reeks of the smell of passing nights.

And the stray stains of mistakes that sprout ghosts from the carpet.

Higher and higher and higher they climb.

( ❤ Mitch)