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)

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)

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)

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)

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.

Plain as the Eye Can(not) See

Side by side yet viewing the same things differently.

The portrait suppresses changing though eyes dress up static in costumes.

Be it poor luck or Pollock,

black splashes or testament,

perception is what we ourselves will make of it,

and what we ourselves make is a bridge lined with kerosene.


Staring into painted faces,

I don’t know what I seek for in them,

sending wayward glances to neighboring papers,

copying off reality to merge with the imaginary.


When you transformed your hand into a fist,

crumpled up a ragged piece of parchment,

could it be read as a sign that I’m left out of sight?

I don’t see loss in receding numbers or the observation of a wreck.

I see descending scraps that need but tape and patience.

A small idea sent to spiral out can be reeled in,

or I’m left weary in the gaze of a painted face’s musings,

or the words in my ear are only there when made to appear.


The comfort that I feel is the embers of a severed connection,

for I’ve learned to construct meaning out of the fleeting,

gathering ashes in buckets and making castles out of the remains,

fortifying memory against the grain.

What burns now is the warmth of guessing games,

for I’ve learned to dream away fears by repressing them with escapes,

plunging deep into infinity where realities diverge,

life plays by multiple choice and all answers are checked green.

It replaces you and we and our.


I am the product of the blueprint unintended.

I am sustained off of what could have happened if you didn’t shake your head.

( ❤ Mitch)

Destroy Me

Often it is in hereafter,

following the expulsion of thought

splattered across a face unwelcoming,

yearning reaches a standstill;

pivot against the friction of feeling

or indulge in a pursuit ever deeper in its shortcomings.


Henceforth it comes to light

when desperate rungs take flight,

desire possessed and lacked its direction

encoded into the machinations of being,

where the individual is never spared a thought,

but the outside world is provided ceaseless consideration.


Solely by the talent of losing

in cracked-soul prose and late-night episodes,

the all that could be given is given rashly

before the extent of the exodus is recognized.

In a short span between breathing and waking,

love escapes, half willing, half unwilling.

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)

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)