You Blinked, and We Miss It

How and when is immaterial.

The infinitesimal permeates in sleep

when eyes remain open but far from waking,

a vision in slumber wed to transcripts

as rain gently strokes the surface;

the blurred becomes ever more obscured in time’s marching.

Yet the music pounds in eardrums,

supplanting static when silence abounds.


Stray glances burn deep into my desire to disappear from modernity,

examining the smiles I learned to treasure by the time they began to crumble.

This car is destined to halt somewhere.

There are boundaries to where thought can persevere,

locked into the restraints of human fallacy and the irony of affection.


If I held a hand up then to speak;

to infuse into the reality of decomposition,

whether memory would hold dear or falter is a question unanswered,

the only hints towards understanding embodied in the photos never taken.


Swallowed by impressions,

the color evacuating from the light,

what’s left to behold is an abandoned canvas,

the melted ichor of youthful imagery the fuel hindsight acquires.


Drawn up on the blankness is everything to nothingness;

a monument to the mobile immobile,

injecting theatrics to the unmovable past that rejects all advances,

though ever so inviting in the possibilities ever unexplored.

I can paint a road for which the memory can follow.


Departed from the current is where I am found,

chasing down meadows of bright flowers blooming endlessly

as if the sun held the moon in a stranglehold,

suffocating the dark from all edges of this condition of being.


It will never come to reason that the occurred cannot occur again.

Eraser stains only cause the dust of mistakes to resonate,

the murky fringes expanded across the page.

All that I could be then is what I can never meet.


Concentrated solely on the temporal archaic,

I stay asleep with eyes open wide,

willingly unaware I inhabit decayed landscapes,

shaking hands with the friends I wished never left.

~

❤ Mitch

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

Spiral! Spiral! Spiral!

I’m an explorer for what I want to know,

yet perceiving only wrongs in glances and sentences.

Here sat at an impasse between your realities

as I choose demise between falsehood and aching truth.


I rely on you to say

If there’s explanation required behind masks

or the expressions are exactly the whole of their parts.

I’ll be sapped at command in waiting rooms,

transferred to accompany your loving indecision.


Waved hands beckon to everywhere nonspecific.

I long to uncover the somewhere I find in you

when I swear a shine hits a gaze a certain way,

sparse enough evidence to hold steady the art of fantasy.


I rely on you to say

if this conversation tone is steps closer to rest,

or the sound of an abating echo discovering oblivion.

Maimed in self-throes in tangled motivations,

I’ve but traces to affection buried in dried blood,

writing judgement across for what is and what is not,

neither seen in an eye beyond mine.


The butcher’s hand is my own device

to excavate the best as if to stave off a flooding ship,

laying to the floor until a skeleton remains.


I rely on you to say

if this is the beauty I’m meant to portray

or if I wasn’t even noticed in flesh or otherwise,

proposing prose to the concept of you,

never attainting the attention of the person,

but the act ahead of actuality.


To make a judgement call off of emptiness,

I’ll improvise our interactions.

The nothingness is enough to savor me

as it drains me further still.

~

❤ Mitch

The Economics of Sand Castle Real-estate

It seems dire at first glance:

A collection of limbs made of disparate grains

sat with resignation by a shore’s invasion march,

awaiting though never pursuing a future collapse;

a temporary life.


Chipped from stone to be less than its whole,

stumbling over the bare minimum of atoms,

falling into those with scattered pieces,

and the castle that emerges rarely equals the parts;

an inelegant time.


Put stock into sand.

Is it shocking when it crumbles?

Placed trust in rusted bones.

Is it shocking when they halt?

In the freeze of oxidation coughed up from a manakin’s breath,

is it shocking to find love is as cold as was predicted?


Reflections on the lake of consciousness.

The beaches are wiped of debris,

fabric of being drifting to newfound shores

where Locke proclaims a victory.

A temporary life.


A graceful arm intertwined in a crippled companion

comes as the wistful touch of a ghost;

merely a whisper against skin,

tingling the hairs as a surge of receding light

where a spirit was buoyed by its appointed lighthouse.

It bleeds into vision clear enough to regret,

yet obscured to where it cannot be trusted.

The question of hindsight needs no and has no answer.

An inelegant time.


Remembered only in creeping phases,

the faces seen and encountered in voice.

Temporary lies in a temporary life.

New shores beckon.

The victory is short-lived.

( ❤ Mitch)

Manifest Nothing

Gray expanse cluttered with industry and broken wheels.

I read in a book and had it placed in my head that it’ll take me somewhere someday.


The words tumble out the same as they always have;

Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

wilting violently in the heat of a southern sun.


Every bump on the path is laid with no intention beside potential derision

as a puppet master shakes their head at the twisting of their name.

Grit those teeth and keep blood below the boiling point

because there’s said to be promise beyond the flat green totality.


And it screams in the radio when a different song is playing,

or in the hum of the engine struggling to deal with the potholes:

The everlasting beckoning of a dream that’s not there;

A future that’s rusted around its waist.


These passing structures attest to a past that is drifting by.

The white of the cold months wipes the dull slate clean,

readying for a year of conquest with the return of the most vacant bright color.

In a cycle it turns in time with the shifting of the night;

A repetitive fable of a place set in nowhere with an aspiration for somewhere less.


Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

sinking dispassionately in a heap of southern sand.


The gray stretches on, having no limitations on its sprawling limbs,

Every nondescript station a dot on a broader horizon as exhaust climbs higher.

Submerged in a quiet desperation do I find my numbing mind,

the details that were never there magnified in their empty scale.

I swear at this point I must have been a passenger to every tree in the land,

their bark the conduit of the hollow myths currency is traded for.


This rust is rubbing off onto the fabric of these bones.

There’s no boundary to the sky so there’s no telling why I saw an end to the stars.

The roaring nothing is never lost on my ears.

( ❤ Mitch)