The Loneliest First Step is Also the Last

Burned up from a departure

to reenter a grounded state,

a safety net condensed into fragments

disintegrating.

A whisper of history;

the sweet nectar of memory

ensnares delicately,

betraying the sense of suffocating

by these invisible arms.

Billowing from the fan

spinning lazily in an empty room

washed over in the heat of desperation,

it’s heard reverberating:

“you’re safe if you break.”

I mistook phantom limbs as a trampoline.

A basin widens in a crash.

If I were to ever ask

would you put trust in ash,

an answer’s unrequired;

it lies in the fragments.

Scream the Pharmacy Blues

Steel greets its wielder.

Cold precision gathers heat in passionate strokes.

It was some time before the prior return.


Prickling problems propagate perpetually.

The self-surgeon traces anatomy in red lines,

dissecting stray letters from lungs as legacy.

Da Vinci takes the wheel

and the poet is strung up, naked, chained,

bound to the paper once disposable

now imbued with intangible meaning,

with the author holding the keys to the locks to his wrists.


It clears a crowded mind to swipe at the rioting thoughts.

A point’s prodding touch comes as mercy,

what the devil’s advocate would advertise as the antidote,

taking measures in scratches.

Inevitable relapse.


A rubber band snaps at the trigger’s pull.

Half-hearted remedies earn only an eighth of grace.

Diminishing rewards,

increasing costs

form a nascent mountain

erupting from flat ground.

Struggle to the apex on the unforgiving surface,

or strike horizontally against the high road,

cheating by recommendation to the masochist’s fix.

The burn is a worthwhile reminder of humanity.


Between crushing realities of failure and forfeiture,

a handful of red lines never caused a tremor.

A searing heat comes as a comforting friend.


Dull bathroom light’s glow

reads road maps in morse code.

Insert to spell grief.

Hit for trauma.

Pain illuminates itself in a mirror’s shame.

A burn wipes the slate clean.

( ❤ Mitch)

Our Fair Friend Under the Weather

Fraying,

full of fault,

the needle tangled in its own design.

Tugging at the touch exacerbates the holes,

their insignificance poked in across months, unnoticed,

coming to bloom out of the mind’s eye,

where their prior meaninglessness is magnified.


Unravel now to spill it out

or tuck it inside a crowded cupboard

threatening to buckle under its baggage.

I’ll dim the lights so you won’t see the damage.

I’ll shine a ray on the most perfect fragments I can gather,

wipe them clean and wrap them in a bow,

making rubbish into ruby.


If the right effort is swung into,

I can be a Michelangelo’s star,

formed out of rugged birth into a resurrected idol,

never cowering in crowded rooms or sneaking down alleys

in search of a fire escape’s ledge or tantalizing edge.


With my effort placed instead,

I draw my fate up in circles,

where the start is at the impetus of perpetual abandonment,

and there’s a constant loop back into eventual disappointment,

be it by my shaking hand or the forceful one of another.


Worried glances portray a sense of anxiety

that I find myself bearing as a globe,

supporting expectation of a reality where my lungs are stable.

Worried glances are spent far too often.

The last thing I hope to see is for joy to seep out of their sight.


Stay inside the shelter as I march into a storm.

Hold fast on the ropes tying down to home.

Maintain position in the long procession onward.

Waver not from opportunity just to waste it on me.


The snow batters against this world we hold up,

and it’s slipping under the frame thought to be held so tightly.

Stay to drown in biting frost that festers in every day.

Take heed to run and leave one promise:

That as I march into a storm, bracing at the door,

cease thought and commit to action.

Commit to action away.


As I march into a storm, through the door,

I will only be some time outside.

Protect your worried glances.

Retain the light inside.

I will only be some time.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Tightest Grip Loosens When Tested

Be quiet now in this breathing.

A jagged inhale is breaking.

Remain sedate

with folded hands

waiting patiently

for promises to be unbroken.


Still as can be in this smothering.

A shudder starts to reverberate.

Cancel out

in prescription rolls.

A dull smile

the misunderstood warning sign.


Brace now for the disentanglement.

You may not know it yet;

that words

run loudly first,

then so quietly

are realized in true colors.


Steady hold to survive in the ward.

No one calls you anymore.

Many words

speak proudly,

but unmasked violently,

and underneath are broken promises.

( ❤ 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)

You Will Always Lose

It rummages about,

rampaging in the dark clarity of slumber,

rifling through shelved ideas.

Cluttered it comes to be

half-past acceptance of being awake,

half-before the sun’s encroaching glare.


In perfect lighting,

Shadows thrive in ignorance,

undiscovered by the myth of lucidity.


Catharsis denied in dampened returns to the bed,

unclean by the shocked, sweat-stained rhythm

of a figure rising to prepare a fall

into the corridors of the lurking expectations,

rummaging about in imperfect theater;

the impetus of inevitable disappointment.

( ❤ Mitch)

Count the Errors

On a daily

sliding scale,

where are you found?

Which statistic is speaking

at the direction of a finger’s assertion?

Now as it wavers in air,

dwindling to the side

of a sliding scale,

where are you?


On a daily

mounting dosage,

what sector of mind talks?

In reoccurring conversation flow,

a distance transforms the self and its killer,

placing the latter at center focus

as the former is escorted off,

restrained for examination,

picked apart.


On a daily

slipping grasp,

how do you balance?

When the edge is excavated,

scraped off by a scalpel’s ill intent,

do you collapse for more?

Perhaps seek another

ready ledge to cling

and breathe.


On a daily

concluding scene,

have the credits rolled?

Scrolling through insomnia’s throes

in the decaying glow of an opened window,

has an escape route been uncovered?

Does it flash in memory?

Still it drags on,

repeating.


On a daily

sinking story,

what will bail you out?

The buckets have holes drilled in.

The savior’s been tossed off to drift,

and his gift was only a sour taste

that lingers on the tongue

and deeply drops

a sliding scale.

( ❤ Mitch)

Ebb and Decay

Static in motion

                yet kept so still

                                in illusion of

                                                a form of progress

                                illustrated thusly in

                scattered carpet lines

wherein a kitchen blade

                was poking holes

                                playing pretend skin

                                                with a hunger for flesh

                                that plays its hand

                                                at a game of resistance

                                                                ebbing further cliffside

                                                                                until a precipice glistens

                                                                and a prey’s eye

                                                turned hesitant killer

                                catches a stray glimpse

                and a dormant compulsion

discovers a rebirth

                with maroon dreams

                                and dances with razors

                                                plotted delicately in fantasy

                                                                as spun by desperation

                                                and concluded as solution

                                                                by migration from the floor

                                                                                and jagged worry marks

                                                                towards definite indefinite

                                                                                outside of conscious bounds

                                                                                                where motion is irrelevant.

( ❤ 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.

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)