Whereto Are We Met, if not Here?

I’ll never know who you were

and the concepts consigned to motionlessness.

Left in scattered pieces are a series of vacant sheets,

lines cleaned off ink’s touch.


What you’d write is unknown to me,

and the way a story could transition out of air.

Through wandering am I reunited with the nonexistent,

wondering how long it can survive.


No matter the chapter, it ceases.

Regardless of cover, there’s an end.

Detached from notes and the guidelines of reality,

I wonder how long it can survive

as hearts run out of time.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Circle of Foxes, a Staggering Rabbit

I’ll die however you see fit.

The tools are yours to choose.

By the libel of a tongue turned guillotine blade,

I’ll die however you see fit.


On a sidewalk cracked by karma’s gaze,

ensnaring tired feet onto unforgiving ground,

my steps are given a weight

like wading through the hardened concrete of mistakes.


Snapped in the jaws of a misplaced ladder,

fate will find me in the narrative you spin,

dribbling poison over a golden cup for the loyal to choke on,

hypnotized by headlines without perceiving what lies in its shadow.


My collapse is an exaggerated storybook told cross-continental.

My obituary is a Vegas bet,

the house aiming rifles to deter the unfavorable favorable outcome.

Enemies are getting paid tonight,

and I’ll die however it is deemed necessary for profit.


Transfigured into a standing, talking corpse,

I see stares that declare the dead walk the earth,

demise foretold in backroom gossip,

tucked behind makeup smiles and snake-spoken assurances,

two meanings out of one mouth uttering one sentence.


With a voice robbed of me,

I scream noiselessly against roaring crowds.

With the control evading me,

I grasp at receding figures that pivot towards the mob.

In a flurry of fiction,

I will accept death however it may come.

The choice was never mine to make.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Titanic Never Learned to Romance

It means nothing at all.

Swimming in the azure expanse that fills our distance:

The bridge between two eyes locked in place,

I’m sensing imaginary neighborhoods

while you’re paddling off the world’s edge,

searching for sunken ships that read signals incorrectly,

charging off into mythology for instant glorification,

where the curtain of nostalgia will never be pulled,

coloring wreckage in rainbows to disguise what was always broken.


It means nothing at all.

With scissors for fingers attempting to shelter a glass heart,

avoiding laying a single scratch on a fragile core,

I find my breath caught in its own tension,

suffocated at the will of the drama that unfolds as your frame undresses.

Yet a blank expression reflects back into me,

drinking in apathy and mirroring the motions,

hoping to rise a vessel from the sea’s ceaseless graveyard

as every timber grinds against my edges.


I’ve got splinters to enshrine a sinking story.

I’m left with splinters to hang memories on.

I’ve got splinters drilling teeth into my veins,

and it means nothing.

It has no single importance to you.


Dredging the depths to collect more than trodden-on sand,

tracing photographs to uncover hidden remnants of past voyages,

as the realization creeps across a worried mind

that there will be no vagrant ruins to discover,

and the truth lies in the emptiness all too clear to witness

though too intimidating to accept as the demise of a connection.


Whether a scratch crosses a glass heart or it maintains shape,

it will be noticed evermore by the man who did thusly err,

yet the core will not blink,

for it never recognized anything in front of its eyes;

Only a prey to leech.

( ❤ Mitch)

Fiction, Friction, Addiction

A million things are meant when I hold you to my chest.

A million more arrive in the words delivered down your throat,

hoping the loose lip rivals of warships keep their tremors quiet,

and whatever could be is allowed to be

before a Sisyphean mind turns blind to chance.


A million things are meant when I write across my abdomen,

contorting the cartography into cacophonous scars,

each mark shouting a million more verses destined for dead ears,

having changed frequency years prior,

existing only in memory’s secluded channel.


A million things are meant in a forceful shove in response.

A million more erupt in how I wed myself to hypotheticals,

where the only place we find peace is where we can never be found,

locked deep in the remains of my heart,

counting shards with broken fingers.


A million less is the best from which I observe in you

and the shakes of the head to any question ever-after unanswered,

rendering what could be to never be in actuality,

blessing the word of depression as sainthood.

It’s all I ever hear.

It’s all I really know.

( ❤ Mitch)

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)

A Passion for Demolition

Proudly do we stand on defeated ground,

waving around battle flags under a blanket of white,

settling a settled score as if we could settle for less.

These boards could be stripped of all nailed down to them

until mist-laden remembrances are the enduring remnants

to testify to the ruin of bodies deemed crippled by inadequacy.


A hammer to the trusses for mistrust turned fatal.

A blow to the basement where innocence once so lovingly bowed.

A blaze for artifacts dated by faded meaning

until we are all that’s left

before our temples are laid to rest.

( ❤ 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)

Dissected Attention Span

Hers was a fatal nothing.

Stretched across to negate awareness,

a back is pressed to the wall,

scratched delicately with fingernail signals.

Savored sensation

absent of substance;

inundation through imagination,

searching for more in laughter than reaction.

Caressing impressions ethereal,

mere mites on a mind

lacking conscious form to compose itself,

registering desire in tandem with attention,

in purgatory perpetual,

undermined in persistence.

The foe is an unspoken encirclement,

existent in the air between bodies

so meticulously intertwined

without ever been close from the start.

Crown the Kings of the Taproom

Gray slate has no reflection to state.

Penciled in are the features I know of you,

but nothing’s to show that speaks of a person.

Were it a mirage, none would blink twice.

Pressed into a walking statue makes no difference

when placed into the populace of a city of naught but stone,

where the self is rendered nil,

satisfied in its barest form of a predatory instinct.


Follow the fermented pool wherever it leads,

passing thru stranger’s doors for the promise of escape,

digging into the trenches of a barstool to stake out the closing time.

A final drop is a disappointment.

An empty hand must be a fallacy.

Clamor for the coming round as Malthus brings his thumb down.

There’s never enough to feast upon.

Disregard that which compels pause.

Everything is false and the hunt is where truth lies.


I no longer perceive whoever you could have been.

I no longer know what I shared with.

A car door slam accompanies a squeal towards the night,

dragging my ribcage behind as it’s thrashed about,

tugging out ligament by ligament until firmament empties.

And in the carnage, I’ll caress the carnal urge to be subjected to,

having spied the edge of the bottle’s domain and strayed clear.


Plunge me in.

Drown me in.

About without the thought of me.

Plunge me into the meaninglessness of mine.

Drown me in the impact I’ve lacked.

It’s clear I’m the losing half.

( ❤ Mitch)