Closed-Heart Ventriloquism

We stopped talking about the blaze.

Kicking about in the ashes,

scattering remnants of once-proud timber,

we eliminated all mention about it.

It tracked on the carpet.

Soot stained the sheets.

A day’s shine could clean for a time,

but the thought proved braver than ignorance.

We stopped talking about it,

yet we know it will never leave.

In Viewing What You Could Be

You swore you would not pass the decade line.

You swore you would be enough to stop.

You swore and you swore until words were gasping breaths.


Leave the past behind as has been written all this time

in every trail of prose stemming from a sweeping pen stroke,

claiming this is the last note to be given on the plunge.

When the final page of the ascending moon is locked into a screen

with the key tossed aside to keep a faded identity inside,

is it a desire fulfilled or does it reappear against will?

Is it the only complaint you’ll commit to paper

or will a medicated thought break the ranks

and push down a wandering heart’s hand,

bleeding colors of a promise to be forgotten

but a promise that puts up fists against passing age?


You swore you would cancel the light.

You swore you would ease the aching.

All was said while all along you were swearing a song,

committing trauma to a confined space of brief beauty

kept close to chest, off the cartographer’s eye,

remained as an uncharted second life to hide from the first:

A crumbling stone statue static in storming weather.

Would anything ever move you from that perch

when stubbornness commanded none should dare approach?


You were saying you were lifting a burden

when you drifted off a balcony’s pedestal.

But all that could do was a fleeting flash of a gravitation change

and an enduring mark of the pain that stays the chase.

You swore you would pass away

and you’re fading every day.

( ❤ Mitch)

Testing, Testing… Noiseless Singsong

Blessed be the blessed me

cursed to recreate repeating mistakes.

Blessed be by blessed chance

to squander the stabs at peace.

By the decisive or the circumstantial,

I spin circles with bleeding pens,

searching for endings in spheres,

dissecting a globe for its edge,

half willing and half unwilling in a mind’s ignorance,

having witnessed the self-made flaws

and half loving and half unlovingly drenched them in cement.


Blessed be the blessed me;

the statue in my path.

Blessed be by blessed restraint

to repair the apparently irreparable.

Told to adore through surviving

and idolizing the struggle towards aspiring,

I’m writing off skin marks as a knife’s love bites,

unintentionally intentional as an improvement tool,

deliberate in its use but equated to negative,

yet I am assured to inject fable into math,

confusing the losing side as the breathing side.


Blessed be the blessed me,

returning to revenge versus glass.

Blessed be,

blessed me,

cursed again.

( ❤ 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)