Graves Line the Bedroom

Spiraling along the edge;

the B-side of a friend.

Isaac Brock confesses in parting

that which is close is fake.


Plucked off the rim by the retreating needle,

thoughts are tossed into the air,

intermingling with the particles,

obscured by dust, dead skin and doomed intuition.


Naked now with words disrobed,

a scratched silence is begged to cease,

tugging versus the departing soundscape

where nocturnal dwellings greet familiar forms,

shaking hands with make-believe

to shift out the cardboard cast.


Any face in the row was a liar.

Any face in the row spoke two ways.

Two throats uttering two sentences,

two meanings in one sequence

with one truth and one unkind truth

never said correctly.


I deem it fate:

A miniature Icarus is snagged in a butterfly net

away from waves of notes

where songs carry a sense of ease.

Tousled in a snare,

put before the crowd bare,

declared empty at auction,

gaveled out to under known geography

but off mental grids,

detached from cardboard wiring.


And it never comes about

and it never comes out

until shoulders begin to sway

where once sat a mountain,

foliage now drawn asunder

and an emptiness says nothing.


It never comes clear.

It never comes out

until no call is ever met

and no names are left to check.


Spin as you were

and spin as you will

In a hollow grip that stings true

yet without a force behind;

only an actor’s grin

as they shuffle to memory

with the pain of their stay never hanging on their day

though forever imprinted on bumps and scrapes

when trying to claw the sight of them out.


Ringing voices

whispering that these choices

are vested to self-destruct,

manifested into bumps and scrapes

when trying to claw the presence out;

to forget the friend you weren’t;

to blame a perceived weakness in myself;

to die in a cocoon in vaguest desires

I never am haunted by this repeating loss.

( ❤ Mitch)

Cause & Effect Syndrome

You were awakening.

You were opening.

In the morning I saw you and you were shining.

Through the beads of sweat caressing every blade,

you progressed every test that was placed squarely in the way.

I was caught trembling,

left empty, thinking:

God damn, is this life?

And the kiss of every razor’s edge grew a rose,

painted over,

said you already settled the score against yourself.

Truth is I can’t dictate the heart or mind to concede to changing tides—

unprepared and unable to satisfy this demand:

To be happily pushed and set all aside so that smile can glow.

This is different.

This is insanity.

Torn between joy within those eyes and selfishness—

to be kept in the pocket atop of your chest

so every breath in, I’m burrowing in.

Don’t forget me.

I’m forgetting myself.


The smell is the same—

clothes haven’t changed since the day we first met.

But you laid down a map, traced diagonals in red,

marked an ‘X’ with a swear you’d find yourself there

buried in rebirth.

A retribution,

a return,

to times that once were always settled and at peace.

The mold beckons out for only so many limbs,

so you’re cutting out the useless parts—

and you threw me in.

Am I blessed to attest to the soaring of your spirit?

Or reserved and defeated to be stones at your behest?—

Trampled over to realize this is the best way to see you fully become.


Every force has reaction—

The suitcase leaves me crying.

I see in a mirror years spent burdened with fear

and it’s building a fortress on my cheeks.

You embrace such a crippled, broken frame,

and I recoil in disgust of myself for falling every time.

Yet in case of this love, if science holds weight,

we’re as guilty as gravity.


Take this wordless confession, unspoken in all manners.

Let it go unheard—

in the end, our matter matters only to drip—

decompose—

replenish this hollow soil.

And in that perhaps I am content.

There’s no purpose to writing,

rambling on and on for a sign of approval.

My shoulders are broken.

They sag in the recess of every lurking failure,

so I won’t let this be another.


Here’s a page from the book you taught me on the oceans:

Underneath all the skin we’re begging “let us in.”

This is pointless—

so motions direct us all away,

protecting the self through isolation.

The Earth always moves and shoves at every corner.

So should we, as you said, discard all looming anchors.

Am I baggage?

Are you free now?

Tell me how do I figure this out

when my only clue is looking in doors you exited through and gauging every footstep.


I’ll assume for the worst that to win I have to lose.

At least then one of us works a way out of hell.

So don’t look back.

Forget me.

I’m forgetting myself.


Don’t look back, forget this.

It’s better without.

( ❤ Mitch)