Oh No, Daylight

“Oh No, Daylight”

It could have been there

between the cracks of conscious and unconscious breath.

Somewhere traded in the lips of ghosts,

I’ve traversed a bridge to link wayward spirits.

For a moment in the drama behind closed eyes,

I dress a stranger in vibrant colors

and swallow the rainbow to sustain.


It could have happened out there,

a street passing Infinitesimal to our selfish selves.

Stares only grazed skin’s surface,

the mind never truly knowing its neighbors.

Yet for seconds ephemeral in the bright of the dark,

tangled nothings shed cloth

and drink in the passion to sustain.


A question lingers unsaid

as the cracks in the blinds expose the film.

In the shine of day,

I swear I saw you there

caught walking in the halls.


A thought invades in haste

when transient is seen for what it is,

even when there’s a knock

that I swear was real.


Would you stay or would you drift?

Would you share this fountain

passed back and forth

to sustain?


It could have been there

as she exits from an ear to its opposite.

It could have been there

once the mirage bleeds into desert sands.


Understood in quiet, morning hours,

I comprehend the stranger made confidant in a fleeting touch,

gently caressing the elegance of the unfamiliar.

Is it out of my hands to pull down the allure from the unreal?


Perhaps it is best to forget the fabricated.

Wounded heads speak in screams when isolated to bed.

If only I was able to say goodbye.

~

❤ Mitch

Contemporary Grief

Gray weather reports are out of man’s hand.

The winds shift at an unknown beck and call.

Terror may endeavor to swallow whole,

as too often are we found in the sorrow of others

and the fatigue of attrition wars.


Led by fable to believe one held the world,

one swung the strings,

one dictated the direction of things.

Led by history’s choreography in archaic tongues

to support a roof in flames with two wavering arms,

burns categorized as the earnings of perserverance.

The dust of ground teeth be saved in caskets,

tied up along the windowsill:

The ultimate finality of our diminishing sum.


Here then does the precipice loom between ascension’s descension,

claimed a fool’s selfish dagger misguided,

yet stood in opposition is the antidote to scorch marks;

allowing a roof to realize its cave-in scheme

and release from the burden of upholding the improbable.

In this are we untimely aligned in contemporary grief,

contemplating in consequence to the frailty of folding hearts,

unfulfilled by drained demand,

told to sit still in nervous episodes;

to shove limbs into pockets and contain a raging storm.


Shrouded in conventional mystery,

tiny teeth tombs total the toll of mutual ignorance

afforded to those without soot on their shoes,

clung to by those sitting still for fear of a push away.


The weight is feared,

so none dare to share anguish,

seeing necessity for comprehension as an unbalanced trade

where pain only transfers, merging into one.

The question is illusive,

so none dare attempt to offer an answer,

concealing instead in empty, smiling words and bootstraps.


In this are we secured unlovingly in contemporary grief,

taught to bear troubles in seclusion,

though unavoidably colliding headfirst with the reality of breakdown,

flailing in the changing seasons,

unexpectedly altered in the throes of modern life.


Alone as determined by circumstance,

the weather of the day is seen as a personal fault,

and it is carried alone,

out of sight,

until eroded in attrition wars,

untimely.

~

Mitch ❤

Model Citizen Living in a Model Town

Here comes the fall down.

Lower the body finds itself,

ever further than prior reaches,

in ceaseless descension to bottommost echelons.


A decline to rockier bases,

fistfuls of gravel for fruitless climbing to discover an edge.

Disheveled surfaces reduced to window dressing.

Sharp intonations of agony at the behest of jagged crevices

are the cushions at the end of a day’s struggle towards the dawn’s glimmer.

Wounds proceed unreconciled,

but a facet of reality of regions beneath,

unable to be noticed as more than a breath’s absent purpose.


Braced for the cyclical tumble wrapped in self-pity,

post-it note therapy,

ugly coping weapons to pave over discard,

the burn of asphalt solutions an unclean reunion at trauma’s doorstep.


Awake in awareness of a faltering glow.

Depleting sustenance births serrated ideas

sliding hacksaws along a troubled staircase winding wherever else,

never attainting anywhere else;

a regression to starts that never truly begin,

and endings accelerate to their rehearsed consequences.


Serrated ideas impose a warforged hold,

prowling the lanes of asphalt solutions,

shuttering infrastructure that desperately cloaks shattered frames,

stores emptied of reserves in a cry for rationing,

all the brightness cascading to a familiar background bereft of aspiration.


It concludes to commence again.

In this, it is a failure of being.

It is an acceptance of the mediocrity of normalcy.

Off to experience sunsets in negative;

A failure to live.

~

( Mitch ❤ )

Grave Gospel

All hail to the pyrrhic vitriol.

Invest in the injection of independent venom.

A high’s temporary grace in bitten ankles,

breaking the arms of armistice in bombshell declarations.

Arguments versus the severity of uncertainty,

imbalanced by bridge diving ideals.


All thanks to the victory of circumstances,

Appeased to the inglorious made glorious.

Induced into be the imaginary reality

where harm relapses are the savior kings.

Cede away the necessary corners to imperial greed,

the self deconstructed imprecisely.


Away to the current light of day.

In slumber now inside the drugged past,

prancing about dreamscapes alien to actuality;

a happy factory prison given false meaning

in the decaying light of dead calendar years,

the best parts repeated to ignore the faults.


Amen cried for the scrawled trails.

Deliverance arrives accelerated beyond time.

Purpose is a six-foot ditch of unmarked renown.

Understanding comes through necessary silence.

Continuation be met with conclusion.

The self destroyed quietly.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

She Will Be Next

Snake ropes operate as vines around an estate.

Inflicted are the faults.

Inflicted are the flaws.

Strange, the way disease becomes our medicine,

diagnosed in scribbled notes and urges for the masochist,

embroiled as we come to be in the fiction of reality.

To find screaming solitude in crowded rooms;

boundless exile read between the lines of forced empathy.


Without a day to live in the shoes of another,

how quickly it comes to be that we reduce ourselves to atrophy

in a seduction by a remedy conflated with the irony:

That which is held behind the shield is what plans the fatal wound.

That which is ignored in the unspeakable clatter of bottles.


Is it inadequacy that plagues the mutual condition of predetermined graves?

Swerving memories collide into the present reel;

trauma’s swinging wild in the blurs of trust and liars,

where all the same are reduced to those to bear the blame.

Is it the guilt of the survivor, clutching to reminders,

collecting cuts from a paper trail of marked wrists and circled calendar dates?


Inflicted are the drifters,

abound in life, placed in a mind unaware,

seeing only the passing glimmer of the model citizen,

losing sight of the dim interiors where the paint peels at the edges,

presenting a structure splintered at the hinges.

What more but another day losing to the struggle,

time blended under moon and sun as if neither rose or fell.

Shifting weather forgets the fair friend under a depleted atmosphere

where clouds are the sky’s absolutes,

and the ebb and flow from rising to sleeping comes only in resolute grey.


Among us all are we all that see the absolute alone,

steadfast in the worry of showing too deep into the bone

where the sad secret of holding on to tomorrow is but a thread of marrow.


To navigate by a landmine society,

it seems strange when the explosions resonate;

a shockwave per decimal shaved off,

concealed in black dresses and shuffled eulogies,

prayed away until another wanderer is pushed to demise.

It bites until being is consumed.

The urge astounds until it crystallizes in weariness,

uncomfortably understood,

betting seconds away as a clock’s hands unceremoniously expire,

as we all find ourselves out of time eventually.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

distance is fondest

diet affection

in throes of malpractice

since the new arrangement

tried in the jury of our ill judgement

and ushered out the door hastily,

now knocking aggressively.

could perceive the volume increase

even with flies exiting our minds


in and out of our mouths,

sewing the distrust revolving about.


false truth and four truths,

or pick the harsher route.

no better than Russian roulette games.

don’t spot the difference between lies.

every move improvised during destruction or construction.

save the dramatics for the newer arrangement.

tell me it’ll fix things for real.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Sprint in the Stillness

Engulfed in constancy.

The unwritten intangible

prods at pillars.

Flesh trembles at verbal shells,

sawing courage into dust.

Widening eyes versus narrowing trails.

The aggressor blinks last.

A dropped guard at an ill time,

victimized by decision,

in reverberating consequence for indecision.

Dissolved views,

elusive to grasp,

careening for the gutter.

Crumpled paper ideas.

Bravery reflected in razor packs.

Be it only temporary in sleep,

disequilibrated through conversations in comatose,

grinding teeth restraining a nerve,

dropping weapons for rest.

In this stasis,

rendered obsolete in status,

hemorrhaging to spite paper bandaging.

In this stasis,

all dreams stagger.

Poor reaction of careless construction.

Shine dulled in rust.

True indication of complacency;

a conclusion presumed.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


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)

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)

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)