Love Is Not Love
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Love is not love that never looked
within itself and questioned all,
curled up like a zygote in a ball,
throbbed, sobbed and shook.

(Or went on a binge at a nearby mall,
then would not cook.)

Love is not love that never winced,
then smiled, convinced
that soar’s the prerequisite of fall.

When all
its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed,
where does Love find the wherewithal
to try again,
endeavor, when

all that it knows
is: O, because!

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Deronda Review, Better Than Starbucks and Stremez (translated into Macedonian by Marija Girevska)

Keywords/Tags: Love, zygote, binge, mall, soar, fall, wounds, scars, tears, persistence, hope, fetal ball, sob, sobs, sobbing, shake, shaking, throb, throbbing, wince, wincing, smile, smiling, convinced, prerequisite, wherewithal, endeavor, just because

Please.
Even here; even now
                             as I paint a board that may yet end up scrapped
Remind me softly,
Surely,
I am here for more than passing through.
Someday does not exist in some
Tantalizing intangible form.
Even here; even now, it is in the making.
Now, with every beating heart
Conquering every shaking hand
Even here; even now
                                           as I rest while my paint is drying.

Lost Causes / (n) (plu):

1. Streets leading to dead-ends.

2. Children cursed shortly after birth by their fairy godmothers.

3. People diagnosed with last stage cancers.

4. Women you know are bad for your mental health and must chase nonetheless. Women, pretty, pretty women, with good hearts, and good intentions, and invariably bad decisions. Strong women who make you weak in the knees. Women with loud laughter who you know might make you cry for years afterward. Women, glowing, luminous women, leaving only darkness and silence in their wake. Lonely women looking for more loneliness.
Women needing love and not believing in it.
Women causing lost-ness.
Lost-ness causing women.

every up-pushing bent green-yellow-frayed grass blade and raggedy, seed-**** protruding from

the hard cold winter ground in front of me

— like the billions of leafy counterparts and bladed look-alikes growing rudely fecund from —

rocks
cement
asphalt

or from

vacant lots
littered fields
waste-places

remind me that you and i are part of a raggedy but indefatigable weight of persistent  burgeoning glory

Running in place is all I seem to be doing.

Wanting growth is hard when you don't have the means,
but the will is so strong.

So strong is all these people ever say
wanting to brake you down with expression
coupled with envy.

My walls cave in
the pressure seems to crush me completely imploding my body into matter.

What's the matter now?
What's next
Im waiting.

Waiting for the light to shrine through
to carry me up
to somewhere new.