Open Palm to Psalm Zero, Eviction Notice Chant

What a pretty portrait to paint on a Sunday.

Wine red in artery lines.

Wipe it clean over the canvas.

Delightful!

Achieving the dismal.

Becoming dismalism.


Resurrect in a week’s middle to end.

Axe’s grind requires a feast.

Feed the engine the entrails of dreams forgotten,

dismantled surgically in the realism lens.

Congratulations on nothing!

Accomplished the dismal.


Reborn in ash but choking on the remnants.

Phoenix fire remedy a death march melody.

It all is DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.


Recalibrated to perform the ritual.

Liquor up the boys to subdue the round’s impact.

Cubicle coffins wrapped in bows,

tied over in suits and white fence security.

Wine red to whine about in desires for an end’s dead end.

How very DISMAL to say!

DISMAL TO SAY.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

D

I

S

M

A

L.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Random Thoughts: Where Have I Been?

Evidently, I haven’t really been using WordPress much for the majority of May. A lot of this deals directly with how I began with month; I was in a state of reflection where it seemed as though the blog had hit a brick wall in terms of growth, and there didn’t seem to be a good explanation as to way. It was very demoralizing to watch the activity fall without really knowing what was behind it, and I felt powerless to recover past statistics. It appeared at the time to be a waste of my effort to try and invest effort into something that was collapsing arbitrarily. I still do attempt to update things here despite my cynicism, but the entire experience was very jarring. I hate to complain so much, but the whole situation was entirely confusing and upsetting to witness.

However, my reservations over this website pale in comparison to the other large endeavor now swallowing up my time: job searching. With college in the rearview mirror, I now have to seek out some kind of employment opportunity to assist in moving on with my life. This process is pretty difficult, takes substantial concentration, and may take a long spell of time. Hopefully it isn’t so arduous that I’m stuck without a position for months, but I’m prepared for whatever potential outcomes arrive.

In addition to the above, my Instagram account seemed to catch fire out of nowhere. It could quite possibly follow the same trend as this website where it’s a ‘boom & bust’ phenomenon, but I’m currently trying to ride the high and gain further ground. Because of this, I have been spending a lot more energy focusing on that aspect of my artistic projects. The emphasis on this website has lessened in response, as well as the KoFi account, which I think is safe to set aside as a failure; the current outlook is not a favorable one.

I will continue to post here, but the frequency may continue to decrease depending upon how other things pan out. I suppose the whole point of this ramble is to assure whoever reads that I am alive, writing, and keeping busy, but I’m not necessarily here as often anymore. It just doesn’t seem as worth it compared to other things I have going on. I’m aware I’m repeating myself at this point, so it’s probably good to cut things off for the night! Hope you all are doing well, sorry about my moodiness, and catch y’all on the flipside.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Ain’t it a Shame

Wrote nothings and licked over the edges,

sealed shut for a nebulous purpose.

I’ve packaged air to send across the waves

to crawl down the back of your neck,

picking out the hairs to stand at the ready.

Gunning for that niche in the gray matter.

Had a thought there was still a seat saved.


Hurts to recognize I’m a magazine salesman,

seeing a story where I’m the fuck up,

you’re the right one,

and I can’t argue much of it.

Decomposed a symphony rolling out.

Tied a strategic knot in the tongue.

Vocal cords would’ve become useless anyways.

Actions purchase their consequences.

Hurts to realize I’ve fucked up.

~

(<3 Mitch)

ah HA ah HA ah HA

Champion

of adversity

clamoring

to apexes.

Chip, smash, knock away.

How tall to aim for?

Consult the books,

consult the screen,

what’s it flashing?


Underdog story

handcuffed to a ladder.

Not getting very far now.

Sideways traveling without directional sense.

Damn it all!

Tumbled.

Getting nowhere near now.


Chipped, smashed, knocked.

Who walks away in favor?

Insta mirror not the mirror,

but both the mirror.

Sinking story.

Going further into further.

Be damned.

Have fun

writhing.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

The Under 30 Club is Now Accepting Applications

Strike up the banners.

Listen closely to messages under dirt:

They’ve got a promise to sell.

Knocking up and down on the soil,

read the reverberations in Morse code.


Sweet indecision tastes lovingly bitter on the lips.

Speak it out and it opens out the mouth’s poison.

Let it constrict until it never loosens.

Swallow! Choke! Cram it down.

Let it constrict until regrets are past tense.

Swallow! Choke! Accept it all.

You’ve got a train ticket to yesterday.

Hope to miss it again.


Buying out seats to the self destruction show.

Boy explodes.

Boy dies.

He’s combusting just for you.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Cost Ineffective

It couldn’t be afforded but was taken anyway.

There wasn’t a price tag to our narrative;

it was scrawled on brick,

etched into philosophy:

great are we as we realize ourselves in perserverance.


The limits placed were redirected,

made boundaries on society,

called out the enemies of industry,

where words out of rival mouths were propaganda cries.

Tuned it out with glass and plastic,

licking dry the drug of our lips,

laid in a heap when embraced,

stranded drifters scrambling to cover breaches in the hull.

One hand releasing drowns us

as we find the boundary of physicality,

low on limbs to forgive cracks in the apartment.


Out pours what can never be admitted.

You’ve an anger to accept versus my violent silence.

Knowing that facing the separation would birth havoc,

gauging flaw from fact,

all were damned to be liars against imagination.

Encumbered in the flood too long,

we stopped noticing the lack of breath between us,

finding gasps to be pleasure,

losing sight of the shore as glorious spontaneity

under the gaze of a rigid world.


You’ve glass to pluck out of your forearm

when the closing call fought an urge for more.

I’ve fabric to barricade my new hell,

wishing you well while descending,

cloaking harm marks with tattooed grins.


It couldn’t be afforded and now red signs are red integers

lining conscious,

mutually depleted.

Etched it on the back of my hand

and still told all to a brick wall

when knowing falls repeat as the globe spins;

you glide in gravity back to where you started,

and what clouded before is the head’s atmosphere.


Subdued it with plastic.

It ran free

as she’s somewhere in the sea,

drowned ten feet down or hovering above,

neither in sight from a knife’s edge.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

The View’s Different Twenty Stories Higher Up

Hooked on a minimum wage addiction.

Survival instincts force a coup of the living room.

Dug into the furniture’s trenches.

It won’t improve in the climb.

The only rising thing is the mailbox.

Seeing red pile up through the cracks.


Trade time for commodity.

Shivering in warmth.

The chill is a fever spike,

failed to sweat out in isolated fits.

Deals run short on purchasing a halo.

Lose luck on happiness and currency.


Drop out and let a house of cards fall.

Drop out and a stray breath blows it down.

Drop out and worries subside subsequently.

Drop out and have it end.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Our Inherent Fiction

See the actor became the liar.

The lessons learned propose a fresh perspective:

adopt gold through sewn doubts

and an image limited to the pen’s mouth.


The great irony comes to play

that when rendered digitally

a mask is only half full,

the glass even less,

with regrets in a cavalcade cascading,

dried anxiety pictured in the ink.


Taken only in the passing of strangers,

there’s no more than a particle of dust on the eye.

No consequences from the gallery.

Internalized by the closer figures,

the better parts portray frustration alone,

abandoning understanding to save their own deaths.


Kept in perfect order, then, when spoken to.

Ambulance sirens call warnings from the profile.

Invisible eyes follow for more;

present eyes leave for less.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

there are no imperfections

I am the concrete sentinel of industry,

manufactured immaculately in Puritan fires.

No complaints from the head of the yoke.

Leave no admission of potential cracks.


I embody the failed experiment of masculinity,

stripped to be only metal and sweat.

Cut the throat’s sound in nervous episodes.

The world cannot hear a male’s scream.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

He Dresses For Winter

He doesn’t bother to brush it off.

Lets the hair stand up in the strands it woke in.

Considers the long sleeve option,

but stops and doesn’t bother.

Who’s watching out for tally marks, anyways?


An echo to rise to from his belly

in the wake of a reflection’s approval.

Tried the store on the way out

and was too sick to feel sick,

but that’s just par for the course nowadays.


He’s got his eyes locked on balconies.

Spends the minutes crossing off names.

Thinks about “not tonight,”

but he knows he’ll attack what’s left of him.

It’s the most of what he’s worth, he says.


Silent alarm to blare in his mind.

The warnings are clearly prescribed.

But a severed branch falling;

do the others take notice?

He’s not thinking so;

so he goes.

( ❤ Mitch)