Mark J. Mitchell

Poetry

 

 

Fierce Muse

 

He’s pierced through by a fine point of seldom.

A watch ticks. The only music he knows

today. He expects little from morning.

Soft, dark sky kisses close his leaking eyes.

He builds a small shrine from cracked glass, undone

by daylight. He always starts again. Some

loose movements rise to prayer, becoming

almost dance, he hopes. Time leaves him bleeding.

His watch sticks at one. Still music. He knows

she waits. She composes small psalms, singing

to his pierced heart. Her fine points are seldom

visible, but he knows them—blinking lights

to guide him up, through stiffly patterned lies.

Most surfaces frighten him. Now she’s done

watching. She ticks like loose music. She knows

his day and expects little. Each morning

she folds dark skies. Kisses his bleeding eyes.

 

 

 

Weeknight Song

For JJ

 

He watched her sort her old music, careful

to stay quiet. He saw notes were new tears.

She catalogued each song by its full

title. Choruses haunted her. Their sheer

artistry held her dark, still child-like eyes.

Black and white memories—shiny tap shoes,

elegant dresses—kept screening. She tried

to love each sheet before she set them loose.

 

He looks back at a screen then back at her,

his long love. She remembers long lost shows

she watched. Those old musicals, carefully

restored. Silly words, then bright notes and tears—

she’d cry each time a girl lost a boy. She’d

bathe in a technicolor kiss that lasted years.

He could smell nostalgia. Knew its allure—

The song and dance. And she knows that he knows.

 

Who wrote that? he stops himself from asking.

because mis-stepped auditions’ crystalized,

too fragile to touch. Words are the last things

she wants. Just minor keys in each score she finds.

He’s watching her. She’s his music. Careful,

he keeps quiet. They’re her notes. His cool tears

could destroy her work. She won’t dare pull

these delicate books out again. Her fears

 

would stop her. She sees him over there, hears

his rough breath as the tv blares dull

news they both know. Then another song falls

to their old carpet. The sound’s a surprise,

like the picture on a song she recalls

someone else singing. Her memory lies.

He sees her old music, sorted. Careful,

she stays quiet, dotting sharp notes with tears.

 

 

 

Still

 

Flat. Still. Resting on her perfect back while

she dreams cracks in her unscarred ceiling,

her stories stay the same. Her neighbors smile

and walk quickly by. She smiles back, brain reeling

with last night’s dream. That long, slow, still mile

to her day job unrolls and God’s words glow

behind her eyes. Desks. Duties. That tall pile

of laundry won’t vanish. Her heart’s kneeling

and no one sees. Your numb mouth wants to repeat

what night taught her. Still, they don’t want to hear

a message she could bring. She’s the un-neat

crazy lady, she knows. It costs no tears.

She sees, still, what’s shown. The embracing glow’s

her only pay. She is still. She’s complete.

 

 

 

Meeting Death

 

The hangman shakes your hand. He needs to know

how heavy you are so the rope snaps taut.

Fast. Clean. He likes it clean. He keeps his eyes

secret from everyone—that’s something they taught

to all in his religious craft—a learned few

who practice death like a piano. Strives

for perfection so it’s not murder. Clean,

precise. You could know him. He looks like you—

perhaps—friendly, with an exact handshake—

his tool. He’s skilled with knots, ropes. Never mean.

You’re his task, his trade. He’s honest. Can’t be bought.

He poses a sandbag on the trap to know

its speed. He’s a pro. His hand doesn’t shake.

 

 

 

Labor Law

 

When the panhandler

takes his break,

he drops a sign

and holey gloves

to mark his time card.

 

Then he slides

inside an open store and—

very carefully—

alphabetizes

all the breakfast cereal.

 

 

 

Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Starting from Tu Fu was just published by Encircle Publications. A new collection is due out in December from Cherry Grove. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he made his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, like everyone else, he’s unemployed. Mark has published 2 novels and three chapbooks and two full length collections so far. Titles on request. A meager online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/