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)

Jim Jones Could Sell the Air Back into Lungs

Tin can man dance.

Hear the machinery adjust to the steps.

More oil for the gears if he falters.

More air pumped into the lungs.

He’s got poetry tongues and venomous prose.

Spit it out in rusted bones.

Close enough to his breath and you’re oxidized.

Construct it piecemeal if it’s not enough.

Build a better practitioner of impatience.


Jangling metal’s alluring tune;

a myth of progress in robotics.

Faults for a day and rises in three.

Divinity achieved in glassy eyes,

and the glassed eyes watch and pray for a visit,

turned about in the factory floor.

Production goes for more years to come.

The ink never runs out for us.


They tap away on the screen.

Sell out for a knife or two.

Heretics abound with the wool over your eyes.

~

( ❤ 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)

Psychodynamomania

There’s no privilege in provoking secrets,

daring closeted skeletons into the light.

Shoveling out all with the pocket lint,

let the bones rattle when pressed,

bounding from room to room without a change in either,

and the story reverberates from start to end

exactly as it started and ended prior.


Swing back,

load the shot,

down the whole if it’s been said before

that wings mangled in barbed wire aren’t fit for flight.

A mess of veins makes for a soothsayer’s tongue,

adorned with rust from telling dated tales.


Taken stock of archaeology’s understanding,

let fly the trigger if it’s been seen before

where that which we vie to keep comes to the grave,

wrapped in the ash and tatters that severs the biography,

clasped hands clinging to visions through a forged glance.


Of every era is that urge to believe

dried blades are made green on the other side.

None questioned if we were seeing grass or growing weeds.

And in taking what cannot be taken,

the best to be seen in autopsy

is what has been unpacked from room to room,

demanded to return out of hindsight’s scope of focus.


Swing back,

load the shot,

slip on control if it’s been known before

that cycles observed repeat if repeated

when no attempt is made to dismantle machinery,

but another shuffle off to white walls,

emptying out secrets,

waiting to reaffirm the emptiness yet to discover.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Crooked Ships Lost in the Night

Penciled arteries are smudged over,

turned too often in shaking hands,

steady once in a simpler, prior era.

Preserved ink is a breath away from shattering,

sentences with the fragility of glass,

details absent seconds after an utterance.


The body abandons first,

as is predictable in passages;

the unfortunate truth of understanding unknowns

beckons with a price tag attached.

It’s the betrayal of the mind that hurts,

never expecting to succumb to blank slate photographs

that themselves will be rendered to less.


It’s the crumbling interior of consciousness,

matter escaping into bottomless drains through cracks in clasped hands.

We may only take so much when we begin to leave,

and palms are made empty come the violent/unviolent ending.


Come back quickly if you could.

Return swiftly if it pleases.

I feel a fear for who becomes the next target,

and I’ve begun to forget your face.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

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)

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)

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)