Bringing a Gun to a Missile Fight

Details, details;

the chasmic microscopic I’ve seen you lost into.

Travel maps with knife lines

haphazardly making the outline of escape plans.

Embedded in the flesh or mind or otherwise,

the hypotheticals never exit fantasy realms.


I’ll improvise as I go through all of the lies,

no different than the times I covered for each disguise.

Which mask I face today is a Russian roulette game.

Spin the bottle with the melodrama and cross fingers.


The temperature of the room bends at your beck and call.

Rise it or lower it to set preferred benchmarks.

Somewhere above or below am I rocketing to nowheres,

far below or above where a shifting standard sits.


Too close and too far away leaves rope burns to adorn us,

for here it is are we tethered to nebulous experimentation:

Of what could be when the incompatible is forced to compatible,

ignoring the volatility of conflicting atomic structures.


If nothing else at all can be said,

the trading of elements had a certain thrill;

wondering if those eyes will sink me or open up an ocean

and along I swim in search of imaginary lighthouses.

Maybe the rudder was shattered at the starting line

with a fire set in the engine before any motion began.


Yet if I am being honest with myself;

douse the carpet in gasoline and let loose the match.

Close the hatch to ensure I’ll engulf the particles completely.

When my mouth relents to speak it will enshroud us in flames,

glorifying the hideously beautiful entanglement of viruses.


Yet if I am being honest with myself;

the aching bones of desire feed a starving appetite.

Blemishes are makeup to embellish the pointless unkempt.

Tearing out every strand of hair only to feel a thought;

that if you’d do this to me, it has to mean you love me.

That if you’d want to maim me, it must mean that you care.

If you’d let me wilt away in a blaze,

it has to mean we’re to be as one.


It lets me believe I’ve won.

Regardless of the right or wrong.

Maybe I’m crazily undiscovered by you.

~

❤ 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

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)

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)

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)

The Young Man Judges Paris and Paris Judges Back

You were always the best at convincing me of my best,

confining me to the dictionary definition of “naïve,”

putting my picture to be read by the watchers.

The wind carries their words on and about

until the bricks in the alleyways are singing the gossip.


It took a while to realize the funny trick you had;

their lips move but it’s your voice they sing out,

reverberating off the architecture you pinned me down in,

so systematically inclining me to lose to your march,

devoted to the steady beat of your footsteps.


It took a while to realize what you could inflict upon

when I gave you the power to inflict it all on me.

I found it poetry when you met our mouths in misdirection

and flooded my lungs with your ocean.

I spent too long inhaling,

turning drowning water into your sweet wine.

( ❤ Mitch)

Had a Hole Drilled…

“Had a Hole Drilled…”

Had a hole drilled deep into the shaking framework science declared was suitable for progression in life,

notwithstanding the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething in internal, eternal decline,

ushered down the aisle as if a knot of nerves would untie itself when rolling down a rocky bank.

Comprehension is quiet behind the apathetic apathy of drifters posing as guides to lost cities:

Accept a handshake and a tug at the waist as the map and key to where Parime resides.

Confess to the condescending con-population that clutters the confines of isolation,

the painted faces of manakins belying what is under blush and bright red smiles,

set in the position of players that bowed to applause for another trick acted,

sending off the hopeful to hopeless escapades in tangled jungle’s fables:

“There is a greater purpose in promise that needs time to understand.”

Patiently forget the stains of credulous ghosts costumed in flesh.

Writhe about in nightly visitations of oaths snapped as twigs,

forever bereft of the strength it was presumed to possess.

Scramble for capsules arranged on the bedside table.

Vie to congest a widening incision with prescription.

If at its best, the stream is but limited in its scope,

yet never does it cease its eager advancement,

leaking onto sheets and disposed band-aids:

Visible distress despite lurking ignorance,

rigid versus the willfully forgetful mind,

emitting softly, always, in consistency,

slowly emptying what was never full

until all is brought to be of nothing.

Until all is fated to swift decay.

And in an unsuspecting blink,

arising to usual similarity,

it will be made

bare.

Had a hole drilled deep into the cavernous construction of uncharted tunnels leading nowhere to note,

simply the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething extracting to zero the elixir of the past,

singing the memoirs of the blue era for glorifying the loneliness inherent to productivity within art,

beautifying the parallels described as what should be warning signs of approaching instability,

though now misconstrued as the impetus of spinning wheels towards success in hindsight,

for only by collision with crooked motives is there a storied pot of gold to defy history,

where broken bones by the con-population are deserved strikes for battling truth;

the force of finding the lost by abusing the abuse incurred, glancing over trauma.

Nothing that happened was what was considered intended if ever questioned,

but in the gaze of a wounded prey observing arrow’s pricks in the mirror,

pierced defenses are the absolutes to define existence at its minimum,

recognizing finality in chasing the motivation urged in beige rooms,

characterized only by few familiar phrases in recycled delivery,

supposedly serene in sincerity’s saying to promote recovery,

now presently rendered to static rumblings exiting snakes

seeking compensation in a journey’s known conclusion,

no different than the lies of the closest confidants,

the liars, the leaders, the vultures of the desert,

dolled up in suits and dresses over beaks.

Talons poke through fabric’s guise.

Talons poke through framework.

Talons revealed in droplets

as scavengers thus leave

and bones succumb

to decomposition

and then to

obscurity.

Bare.

Putting Blanks in Blank Spaces

Emptiness is a kiss on the cheek,

barely brushing the bone behind skin,

needling at structure too slightly to ever see

until deep in the white is an irreversible knife.

Aching comes as the thought of an embrace;

the gesture unspoken, unwanted,

unknown when confined to literature and portraiture;

alien if never seen or felt.


I remembered it in songs written about anyone but us,

never heard by us,

never known by us.

I remembered playing pretend in the twilight as our sun set,

tracing makeshift constellations with my fingers,

the surface of the sky bending to the will of fable.


It only needs sustenance at the assurance of shared words.

Bled from supposed coping,

now the palette of the storyteller,

let the Greeks romance what I demonstrate miles above our heads.

Codified into the study of condition and fitness,

the character I step into can enter in the alphabet of stars.


Ask a question to challenge it as I find the will to create it:

What if eyes are only as good as our minds,

and fear holds the reins when loosened by consciousness?

These reservations are furniture stains,

stubborn against the methods that work to wipe the woe.


What if a cluster’s lines are not the meeting of intersection,

and parallel lines are what we come to be defined by?

These limitations are the imaginary numbers,

understood as existent but their purpose disputed.


Coy penmanship can replace the blanks of ripped-out pages with equations,

measure distances and trick the answer to zero.

I could see the geometry of you and me in songs we didn’t make,

we never wrote,

we never heard.


You replied without an inquiry to spare,

but the answer to that which was lodged in my chest,

cracked by an emptiness biding its time with an irreversible knife:

It wasn’t that it wasn’t there,

but what was there wasn’t shared,

and it wasn’t wanted.

( ❤ Mitch)

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)