Austrian Love Story

Tell me that it takes the clock’s hands.

Tell me that it needs days to grow.

Pouring decaying thoughts to flowers as they morph into weeds,

could it bring to life what was said to not begin?


And I think I might have failed as I reached,

but a stray sway of mind sent my heart reeling.

Separated from reality in the synecdoche of imagination,

skyscrapers rise taller to be the walls of isolation,

since I knew I stumbled when I struggled with my throat

and out came phrases that should have stayed voiceless.


Is it you I see?

Is it you I place into nonexistent photographs?

Am I losing time sorting through imagery

when the actors have stormed off the stage?

Is it you or is it a passing phantom?

Have I gone to replace in order to repeat?


Struck silent in lessons that were never connected to life,

yet the blurring dimension of fiction spills over from its art,

damning ourselves to parallels that ever will describe shortcomings.

Tearing through notebooks,

digging through the pages,

mining the handwriting dry for relief,

and I see us standing there in between the curving pen lines

where Klimt laid us down in golden robes,

and it was sworn to be elegance.


Was he wondering about what he saw and did he know when it’d arrive?

The most empty hope hangs itself on a wire hoping for response,

but the air runs thin higher up in the atmosphere of sinking dreams.

Did he doll us up in grace?

Did he know what he had made?

Or am I picturing you again where we never could begin?


Ours is a history of mistrust.

Ours is the dried ink rubbed off on a wrist.

Washed dry at the end of a night.

It may not have ever been there.

( ❤ Mitch)

Yelling “Timber!” at a Dying Tree

The house has yet to change its shape.

Vines bide their time as the roots of recollection weasel under the floors.

Painted over in a future will never erase passion.

There was handiwork in basement fantasies.


In being careless with time and the fleeting strength of youth,

I tripped along the planks and a drop of blood was anchored;

what was spent cannot then be purchased back.


We hid our best selves under the stairs in the cupboard.

“Don’t let us out, we’re too scared.”

For if they creep out under the crack in the door,

we may be forced to recognize our collision

and the fire toyed with in the fragile fingers of innocence.

It balances on a cliff’s edge in dagger eyes.

Jump off the fear and plunge inside.

Unearth the thoughts so tightly buried.


Do you reconcile now or shall it fester in the hours burning twilight down?

With a fading vinyl record scratching itself to razor marks.

the groaning of the turning reads out a forlorn letter.

Do you face it down now or shall it wait for meetings you promise to make?

But they never wander into a calendar’s page.


Carved in triptych it can’t be seen from an outside view;

a single blemish in a valley

where the rain never touched the yellowing plain.

Caught in details I always know,

where my imperfections lie on top and below of skin.


As if a continent split itself across oceans while burning life,

I see parts of assurances drift to turbulent waves.

Go bravely into the Atlantic to chase them,

but I’m always drowning in the meaning without ever clearing from theory:

the concept of math that we shattered to bits when our whole was in negative.


Do you reconcile now or do you let it sit as dust on a window’s ledge?

Never wiped clean of footprints from testing the height.

You won’t be sleeping soundly tonight.

Do you face it down now or claim awareness of fault when the faults are repeating?

The reel never closes its lens.

Shows that stop somehow never really end.

( ❤ Mitch)

Whereto Are We Met, if not Here?

I’ll never know who you were

and the concepts consigned to motionlessness.

Left in scattered pieces are a series of vacant sheets,

lines cleaned off ink’s touch.


What you’d write is unknown to me,

and the way a story could transition out of air.

Through wandering am I reunited with the nonexistent,

wondering how long it can survive.


No matter the chapter, it ceases.

Regardless of cover, there’s an end.

Detached from notes and the guidelines of reality,

I wonder how long it can survive

as hearts run out of time.

( ❤ Mitch)

A Passion for Demolition

Proudly do we stand on defeated ground,

waving around battle flags under a blanket of white,

settling a settled score as if we could settle for less.

These boards could be stripped of all nailed down to them

until mist-laden remembrances are the enduring remnants

to testify to the ruin of bodies deemed crippled by inadequacy.


A hammer to the trusses for mistrust turned fatal.

A blow to the basement where innocence once so lovingly bowed.

A blaze for artifacts dated by faded meaning

until we are all that’s left

before our temples are laid to rest.

( ❤ Mitch)

Closed-Heart Ventriloquism

We stopped talking about the blaze.

Kicking about in the ashes,

scattering remnants of once-proud timber,

we eliminated all mention about it.

It tracked on the carpet.

Soot stained the sheets.

A day’s shine could clean for a time,

but the thought proved braver than ignorance.

We stopped talking about it,

yet we know it will never leave.

In Viewing What You Could Be

You swore you would not pass the decade line.

You swore you would be enough to stop.

You swore and you swore until words were gasping breaths.


Leave the past behind as has been written all this time

in every trail of prose stemming from a sweeping pen stroke,

claiming this is the last note to be given on the plunge.

When the final page of the ascending moon is locked into a screen

with the key tossed aside to keep a faded identity inside,

is it a desire fulfilled or does it reappear against will?

Is it the only complaint you’ll commit to paper

or will a medicated thought break the ranks

and push down a wandering heart’s hand,

bleeding colors of a promise to be forgotten

but a promise that puts up fists against passing age?


You swore you would cancel the light.

You swore you would ease the aching.

All was said while all along you were swearing a song,

committing trauma to a confined space of brief beauty

kept close to chest, off the cartographer’s eye,

remained as an uncharted second life to hide from the first:

A crumbling stone statue static in storming weather.

Would anything ever move you from that perch

when stubbornness commanded none should dare approach?


You were saying you were lifting a burden

when you drifted off a balcony’s pedestal.

But all that could do was a fleeting flash of a gravitation change

and an enduring mark of the pain that stays the chase.

You swore you would pass away

and you’re fading every day.

( ❤ Mitch)

Testing, Testing… Noiseless Singsong

Blessed be the blessed me

cursed to recreate repeating mistakes.

Blessed be by blessed chance

to squander the stabs at peace.

By the decisive or the circumstantial,

I spin circles with bleeding pens,

searching for endings in spheres,

dissecting a globe for its edge,

half willing and half unwilling in a mind’s ignorance,

having witnessed the self-made flaws

and half loving and half unlovingly drenched them in cement.


Blessed be the blessed me;

the statue in my path.

Blessed be by blessed restraint

to repair the apparently irreparable.

Told to adore through surviving

and idolizing the struggle towards aspiring,

I’m writing off skin marks as a knife’s love bites,

unintentionally intentional as an improvement tool,

deliberate in its use but equated to negative,

yet I am assured to inject fable into math,

confusing the losing side as the breathing side.


Blessed be the blessed me,

returning to revenge versus glass.

Blessed be,

blessed me,

cursed again.

( ❤ Mitch)

You’re Officially Yesterday’s News

On the other side of reflected frames,

I’m wondering if my body is stood where it’s seen

or if I’ve been caught in a wake’s drift,

tugged into somewhere seen in imagination alone

where there are coffee stains on the table and soft lighting,

laughing out strings of stories from unchecked time

as two travelers color in empty frontiers kept hidden in passing years.


From a seat at the table,

I’m wondering if you’d open to see the opposite end of an eyeglass,

or if a locked edifice would be the lasting impression I’m to be given.

Performing a manic dance simply for that tangible glance sneaking out of reflected frames,

the rhythm played out to an expired tune damned off a heartbeat’s radio,

humming dully to the pace of an accelerated rate;

the same graces I learned copying your ballet,

where I’d brush against and feel a key slip into my breast.


The clutter in my pocket’s rusted to an indecipherable mess,

and in its indifferent stare there was I likeness I feared to see,

as if my body was stood in the palm of my hand

but my mind was bailed into a life boat,

coasting on the edges of Bermuda to find truth in a dead end,

scouring myths for reason when the facts are confined to numbers,

and in between the odds and evens is an eternal gray where no answer reaches.


Where to would you have me tap on your memory?

On the other end of reflected frames,

are you to block me off the stage

with the diminishing reverberations of our tangled skin the sole ring?

Are you to push my body back to where its mind rests,

nestled in the embers of a soothing remembrance,

where any hint of your looking my way feeds the coals?


I’ll tend to this camp until the monitor is out of tune.

I’ll try to shake the debris out of my head.

Your rhythm remains trapped inside.

( ❤ Mitch)