Dear diary;
I have thought a lot
about leaving this all behind
and buying a one-way ticket
to anywhere where no one
knows my name.
I want to forget who I am
and lose myself
in another's culture.
I want to stay until I tire
and do it all again
somewhere else.

Progress
by Michael R. Burch

There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.

Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.

Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.

The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.

Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...

and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.

NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time he/she spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******

A tragedy of the world and passage of time
of things that disappear from memory,
a pain i can not fathom.

The ones that die raging in the night,
that are unspoken for
or unheard.

The language of a people,
no longer spoken.

The traditions of a nation,
no longer practiced.

The culture of a family,
erased by time.

Things that have been eradicated
beyond life
and can never be reborn.
Things once so precious
that are almost entirely gone from the world.

How do you reconcile the genocide of a culture?

You are a series of red flashing fabrics and I am a Matador thrusting myself into you over and over and over again

I know it is nothing but pain and embarrassment and yet it’s so natural to me to proceed with these actions

You are a red flag I can spot from a mile away glistening your sequins in my face and I cannot stop but ram my face into yours

I know you bring me no satisfaction and I know I will never win against you in these battles and yet it’s so natural for me to hurt myself for you

Teach young girls that they can say "No,"
to situations that make them uncomfortable.
Don't force them to hug someone they barely know
even if you know them well.
Teach young girls they can say "Yes,"
to situations that make them curious.
That they don't have to sacrifice their own happiness
for someone else.
Teach young girls that they can say "I'm sorry,"
but only when they actually mean it.
To assert themselves when they've been wronged
and to recognize when they were wrong.
Teach young girls to say "I'm worthy,"
no matter what path they choose in life.
Whether it's to be a doctor, an artist, a scientist, a wife
whatever it may be, let them decide.

Teach young girls to say "No."
And teach little boys to accept it.

Its weird how something so beautiful
can become so deadly
owing to the context

Just like how beautiful it is
when we draw the artwork together
with our bodies celebrating our attraction

But when in the same play
comes in a stranger
whose smell you are not accustomed
whose touch is foreign to you
against your will
gives you trauma and haunts you at night
being nightmares

It was just the consent that was missing

A generation navigating illusionment:
I am one. Excavation; i sift. Shaking
a plastic basket.

Round - and channel mouths spout
a wire crosshatch. I
Tap
   Against
         My palm.

Fine flour lands on the counter and
In my head I listen to the same songs
because I already know the words.

I look for a truth outside my mind
because on weekdays I tell myself
I’m not worth knowing.

How do you stop hating yourself
When you hate yourself because
You hate yourself?

When I slide my hand across the counter,
White flour mist puffs and I listen:

Mac Miller’s alive. He said he’s
surviving on *****, almonds, and granola bars.

Grasped in some five fingers
A thin red handle.

Inside the nation exposed to painfluencers,
having original anything is
aristocratic.