Every Page Unwritten

He lit a candle in a cave untouched through years,

where only photo book reminders colored the sides.

Written down in the margins of coy messages mailed between desks,

something resonated in the angles and the threes.

Even if the letters shrink in the knocking of aging,

you’re cuddled up near the ghost of an ash pile’s warmth.

It was a thought prepared to take up arms when a mind rejected.

Now all that rests is a heart dotted with wax stains.

( ❤ Mitch)

Plain as the Eye Can(not) See

Side by side yet viewing the same things differently.

The portrait suppresses changing though eyes dress up static in costumes.

Be it poor luck or Pollock,

black splashes or testament,

perception is what we ourselves will make of it,

and what we ourselves make is a bridge lined with kerosene.

Staring into painted faces,

I don’t know what I seek for in them,

sending wayward glances to neighboring papers,

copying off reality to merge with the imaginary.

When you transformed your hand into a fist,

crumpled up a ragged piece of parchment,

could it be read as a sign that I’m left out of sight?

I don’t see loss in receding numbers or the observation of a wreck.

I see descending scraps that need but tape and patience.

A small idea sent to spiral out can be reeled in,

or I’m left weary in the gaze of a painted face’s musings,

or the words in my ear are only there when made to appear.

The comfort that I feel is the embers of a severed connection,

for I’ve learned to construct meaning out of the fleeting,

gathering ashes in buckets and making castles out of the remains,

fortifying memory against the grain.

What burns now is the warmth of guessing games,

for I’ve learned to dream away fears by repressing them with escapes,

plunging deep into infinity where realities diverge,

life plays by multiple choice and all answers are checked green.

It replaces you and we and our.

I am the product of the blueprint unintended.

I am sustained off of what could have happened if you didn’t shake your head.

( ❤ Mitch)

Hunker Down in Bunker Town

Talking through but words come silently.

Everything is laid out yet still made opaque.

Rafters hang heavy on shoulders sagging from carrying the weight

of a place called home that feels less so when said,

even less when reflecting alone at chronology,

with artifacts of ardor reduced as love letters to dust.

Amassed into a cave of motives sharpened against its host,

you regress into recesses where dried remnants of anguish,

engulfing pale skin as if ice were breaking water free,

now deposited into spires clung to as allies,

scratches on shoulder blades a deserved brush with failures.

The sun is a critical eye.

Stars are camera lenses.

You travel further down to hide.

I match trajectories on paper where we seem to be beside,

tangled and dismantled as circumstance has declared,

strung chaotically together in something that bears fate’s name.

They’ve tossed shattered youth into a desert to teach them how to swim.

Stride or succumb matters not;

it will appear as if nothing was ever done,

and nothing was ever meant.

Sharing findings with a collection of colored shards,

I drew a treasure at the end of a spectrum of chances.

You reached for white and drew a chalk outline.

No company to keep except the thoughts you hate,

yet a part wonders if their presence is key to survival:

Shunning out the world to secure safety.

Evaporating with the ice as what once was greets a clouded horizon,

I’m not protected behind this shield.

I can’t see beyond the edges.

I can’t see where you’ve gone.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Artist Against the Observer

I see elegant swipes,

dances in moonlight

across empty landscapes

filled with only tangled bodies

enjoying a private canvas

of intertwined starlight:

A mirror of imagery I pull from the romantics.

You see the blankness

without its name.

You’re drawing conclusions

while I’m scratching in annotations.

You enjoy a private canvas

as the sum of its parts:

The product of the romantics detached from our age.

( ❤ Mitch)


Sweet scent of nectarine,

my personal heroine.

Why don’t we drown together

in the glow of the spring?

Vibrant ceramic skin

clothed in nature’s embrace.

Can I share this fabric

and tease a way in?

Caressing somewhere between the trees

the potent needle of nostalgic euphoria.

Eardrums were ringing, awash in the sound

of separate parts becoming a whole.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it in every face I see.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it through memory.

Falling, colored leaves

tangled in our grasp.

Should we climb together

above the branches?

Find privacy from the vines,

the avalanche of dying things,

gasping for sunlight to feed our roots

to bring this kiss to life.

Caressing somewhere between the trees

the thought of someone once known.

Veins were pounding, drugged to the sound

of steady beats racing to infinity.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it in every hand I hold.

And I try to repeat it,

repeat it through all the letters.

Sensations pulse to the forefront of my fingertips

as the motions pass through this empty chest.

I feel a change buried deep inside.

But the image blurs—

it’s fading to fog,

the dust begins to cascade down.

The snow around these parts is a bitter taste:

Bitter sap in veins,

feel bitter on tongues,

feel stings that poke and prod like knives.

No path left among the bedlam

and the leaves keep falling,

the leaves keep falling.

And I try to repeat it, repeat it,

repeat it with a name.

And I try to repeat, repeat it,

repeat it in a frame.

And I try to repeat it, repeat it,

repeat as you said.

And I try to repeat it, repeat it,

repeat it when you’re gone.

( ❤ Mitch)