Gliding deftly along the city street
rolling quick and constantly
onward to some unknown scene,
some backward park in the nighttime
smoke curling from these
parted lips, moist and inviting
calling me somewhere I've never seen.

New day, new night
new feelings, rage in delight
fill me with your hilarious entropy,
knock my quarks into the next century,
will you please?

Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free
between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks
like glue,
wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec
telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected
and rendered obsolete
Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme

Amaterasu,
and Imma tell you
these ladies in the picnic table
buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch
Jesus ******* Christ
and a indelible roster of good guys,
to which we all must strive to live and die
behind,
never moving forward
chasing our tails like a sick dog
under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark
imported from overseas
dead trees
dead canine
and oh isn't it just divine?

You see it, pretty lady.
I can see it hiding behind your eyes
the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid
if they found out,
you'd be crucified.

Well honey I hate to inform,
With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs
aint Methuselah,
they'll be dead!
long before your flood of tears tears me from the land
ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat
of the eastern seaboard,
or maybe wash me deep along the 80
into the desert sands and tiles
on a leaky cell phone screen
desperately trying to dial home on low battery,
realizing all this was one big deferred dream,
baking in the sun and shriveling
oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose,
gotta cut it back to size,
'else your soul it'll outgrow

Don't worry honey bee
It hasn't happened to me,
and We know with calcuable mathematical truth
that it'll never happen to you.

I have everything I need, or so I'm told,
We get by being just another girl or guy,
Make the most of this without eccentric goals,
Give me a break, this is what I "need" in life.
The truth is we're all about making a scene
When I finally get to live my "dangerous" dream,
This place has food and shelter and "life,"
Sure we've got it made, this way of life is obscene,
One way or another while I wonder about "it,"
These "insane" feelings of nature just never quit,
When the time comes I'll magically find the "right place,"
But until then who knows if my dream is a streaking bet,
Don't even bother going naked, I'm already just a "disgrace,"
You "Go Army" and die, my basic needs are all too well met,
But along with these words are the reasons I wont move just yet.

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear,
Who has written such volumes of stuff.
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few find him pleasant enough.

His mind is concrete and fastidious,
His nose is remarkably big;
His visage is more or less hideous,
His beard it resembles a wig.

He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,
(Leastways if you reckon two thumbs);
He used to be one of the singers,
But now he is one of the dumbs.

He sits in a beautiful parlour,
With hundreds of books on the wall;
He drinks a great deal of marsala,
But never gets tipsy at all.

He has many friends, laymen and clerical,
Old Foss is the name of his cat;
His body is perfectly spherical,
He weareth a runcible hat.

When he walks in waterproof white,
The children run after him so!
Calling out, "He's gone out in his night-
Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!"

He weeps by the side of the ocean,
He weeps on the top of the hill;
He purchases pancakes and lotion,
And chocolate shrimps from the mill.

He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish,
He cannot abide ginger beer;
Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!

If all it takes
just a kiss of death
to be gone
for good forever.
I wonder how
a life becomes
'so worthy'
to live it
in the first place?

The truth is
all present times
span out to the future
to realise the potential
of a newly born one!

How could dead death
can take it all in one ******?
Or it just dumbs down
on the surface digging
deep into the diverse layers
of the grand design of a life?

dead babies.
college.
music.
clean.
***** house.
*****.


linda.
gabe.
gabe's teeth.
gabe's ***** teeth.
school.
friends.
leaving.
new orleans.
new orleans.
change.
change.
very worried.
adderall.
drugs.
more adderall?
shower.
clean.
clean.
emoticons are kinda lame.
sleep.
sleep.
want more smarts.
want more dumbs.
dumb dun dun.
tittle tattle rattle pattle goo.
*******.
attention.
attention.
more please!.
your dumb.
that's a defense mechanism.
air:
more of.
less again.
stop that.
stop stopping that. stop stopping stopping that. think about clouds. what will it be like in a year?
maybe people think I have weird hand gestures. maybe I'm thinking about them so much that they look weird. maybe I'm thinking about thinking about them too much too much.


oh god, hum. sing. play around the room. something already.


Don't look at me you *******.
go. back. ***.
I'm sorry. stay. look around.
I love it when your around. Your really amazing.
Do you like me?
Stop calling me so much.
Hey call me. Can I call you?
What are you thinking about?
I'm tired. I can't sleep. will you talk to me about my problems. problems are dumb. I have too many problems in my little head! I can achieve EVERYTHING
Hold me! Stop asking me to hold you. hold me? hold you? hold hands? Don't touch my hands. stop looking at them.
no, just no. sleep. shower.

clean breaks. will make me brake.

One year I had a really bad toothache
it felt like all the wrong words
kept coming out my mouth
and I couldn't help but bite my tongue
just to the numb the pain I was spitting out.

It hurts to be hated
but it hurts worse to be loved,
especially when you don't think your worthy of it.
Put those lines next to all the other dumbs ones I've used  
swinging hammer handed words, scalpel-like terms,
some of the meanest **** you've ever heard
trying to break you in two and you might just have enough
between the half truths and the promises I never kept
to write one really, really sad tune

I knew better than to speak to you the way I did
but some people act like welcome mats
for other people's ***** shoes,
you left the front door unlocked
and I made a habit of wiping my feet
as soon as I walked on through.
I'm not proud of what I tracked in
and I take responsibility for most my actions
but lets not act like they took place in a vacuum.
You had to lay down first
before I could ever step all over you,
and when you refused to love yourself,
what did you expect everyone else to do?

One year I had a really bad toothache
and you were just too sweet a taste for me to take,
without getting angry at myself
for trying to have my cake
and eat it too...

poetry is more than me
it's more than words
& more than rhyme
it's vaster than space
& faster than rhythm surfing
the waves of time
amplifying its
frequency with
each &
every
line
pointed by symbols (signs?)
clung to limestone precipices
like vines within concrete crevices
whispering screams of defiance
against ignorance's yokes,
again our arrogance jokes
about the insignificance of other folks
of the other ones
of them, those people, the absentminders
relentlessly fettered in golden
coats profaning their shine thusly true
so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface
as the caustics of thought refract through
the waters of spirit & soul
churned out of each & every mind
a field of poetics
lurking behind the edifice of structure
deified as functional perfection manifested
but utterly infested with ***** sheets
& replete with redundant repugnance
filtered by plumbing that dumbs **** down
to the basement level deep underground
where much is mumbled but little is said
aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.

She thought about him for a moment still she turned off those emotions as easily as a contract killer puts a bullet between some dumbs ******* eyes.

She said I love like a snake slithers across the floor.
How moths are so very drawn to deaths final flame.

Love…
What is it,
Is it pain ?,
Or is it beauty...
L- Lots of love given,
O- Overly obsessed with your significant other,
V- Very much in love with them,
E- Extremely committed to your lover and never give up on them, never abandon them, never stop loving them,
Love is the way you cherish someone,
Love is beauty,
Love should never cause you pain,
Love is a rhythm,
Love beats a tempo,
Love beats slower, slower, till it dumbs down,
Loves dumbs down
It…  fades away,
Like skys full of stars,
When the fireball rises,
All the shining souls disappear into…
The black oblivion, their parents shoved them into this hell
All we see is the shining, but deep down Love is broke,
Like the child with the divorced parents.

The great, green Giant sleeps all through the day;
beer-bellied, toes outstretched, dipping into the sea.
He lazes beneath the springtime sun, while we sit idly
anticipating possibilities and to-bes.

This dead castle bursts with life,
seagulls, and sandwiches,
and cameras capturing the view
onto something they can hold;
something graspable.

                *

The Giant disappears at night;
merging with the mountains.
Fading into the dark, as the waning moon
creeps up behind and over and above;
dripping reflections to feel a connection
with the earth again.

Lovers wander now, wandering through the flirting streets
which tease with uncertainty, and curtain the
awe-striking depth of the darkness that dumbs their speech
as they 'turn at this corner and just along the promenade..'.

Pushed back by a blast of wind;
numbing hands cold.
Forcing them away from
prolonging a gaze on the Sea's cruel honesty;
knowing they would be driven mad
by endless questions of eternity.

Questions they attempted to drown out with music and dancing
and Tequila shots and the kissing and the music and the dancing...

But now in the air, by this high-tide, they are
Modern-age-small-town-philosophers.
'Have you ever seen the petrified forest?'
Will they tell stories of us too?
Life is so short and now is certain, well...
as certain as certain could be known for certain so..'

So, after meditating on the existence of existence,
they find refuge in the optimistic light of the stars.
Warmth for the spirit from the deep, dark, cold depth of the darkness;
'Because the night is so very young.
Look, there are still stars in the sky...'

Venus is inconsistent; an evening and a morning star.
And, oh, is that Orion's belt?


         Lying on the floor, in the morning, after a night of philosophy.

The new city
I await to be ascended
For hath we planted or vented
The bullets we pile upon mounds?

Wherein creation dumbs down!!!

To mammal inferiors!!!

For God is superior
Haveth we lost that translation?
Wherein the cities
And nations
Hath become their own diety!!!

Spewing mouths
Canst hardly be fed
Wherein the living amongst the dead
Are non-compassionate!!!

Loosen
Or fasten it
Thy belts likely to come unmanaged
Where's the advantage
In the hate thou war among another?

Sister and brother!!

Hath thou forgotten thy kin?

For thou lost all
Nothing!!!!

Is it thee that shalt win?

Thee greedy of new-aged Noah's generation!!!

Is it fornications
Ability
Of **** and *******
To liken thine senses?
For where art thy lenses?
Thou Freemasons of mother earth!!!

For its thy curse
Thou hast brought
Amongst thy children

Thy diaries
Art thy legacies!!!

This women is beautiful she's something to be seen, but all the guys they wonder what's Beneath those jeans. They want to see her body to judge it openly, but she dumbs down her hair to dumb down their thoughts. The queen of the scene is dressed in rags and cloths, she hides her beauty from these mad men who come in flocks. She's waiting for the one, the one that will see that true beauty is what the eyes cannot see but must believe. Her heart is strong as she moves along, to confront the coming days when people will say "why do you look that way?". As days pass by those suitors denied this beautiful women because her looks are her lies. But She vowed to keep the charade until her true love has come through, To sweep her away in his chariot to play with her hair under the moon. To live the life she dreamed evermore, to never have to hide herself behind the curtains she had worn.

Holy, black typewriter, frenzied,
spits out strangers’ love letters, desperate, the ink band half dried
(but ultimately returns to its grave of  dust).
Withered books, yellow pages carelessly leafed through, devoured
(pay no heed to the traffic - walk and read),
falling from one pain into the next;
such are beginning and middle of these days...
And benzedrine fever dreams are fleeting,
as elusive as great insane private revelations
mentioning Ginsberg and Hendrix by name
- a swirling fata morgana of Buddha, Dharma, cult,
and a thousand angelic punks, punk angels, safety-pin-winged,
dreams about Neal and I (not I) being cops -
revealed to my hands in a crazy stupor, darkening and
illuminating the whole café, unaware-

and I know that Marlon knows a jeweler, knows
his hands -
how does that fit in here?

These days waste by, racing, crash-trickling like waterfalls,
like the Niagara Falls that made Joe cry -
and now I watch him cry,
shamelessly, inconsolable in the face of beauty,
crying like he’s never seen water,
as he hands me another case - Morpho menelaus -
dead, killed, (killed on Denver roads), escaping freedom
in the giant hands of a not-so-average Joe (secret hero of this poem),
his eyes glued on life, and full of tears
and his dad didn’t want a daughter neither, wanted no children at all-
And down in Mexico (where he is now, or was last)
the plywood violin plays the open-highway-blues
for a not-so-sober Jack who loves and hates and loses.
Somewhere amid the British-American chaos: a pair of twins
suffered at the hands of their mother,
suddenly forgotten on the road...

Speaking of “mother”: Soon I’ll miss a wedding, and
- come to think of it - so will Jack, won’t he,
the other one,
with his red lips and olive green canvas, with his
made-in-vietnam imitation of
father Dunkirk’s blood, fallen soldier, 1916 Jesus didn’t rise -
How to lose my mind positively, flush out the memories?
Swimming at midnight: the cold lake homely in my bones
all washed over by iodine-orange water.
Mark hums sweet country tunes, wheat between his lips, "hey la, my boyfriend's back" -
and the sun never sets
and the coffee is always cold
and all the pages are black.
And Springsteen lies on the nightstand, his spine turned to me,
sharing his makeshift bed with Kerouac and butterflies, and

a cruel storm of stories that sends my head spinning
makes it so that - unable to form in the hurricane -
poems cower in the back of my throat
like predators waiting to jump on their prey, and -
any minute now, I beg them, any moment-
but they shake their Rottweiler heads and bare their crocodile teeth,
taunting me, saying
that the wordy intelligence of others dumbs me down,
burns me out, charcoals my brain with the soot,
leaves me without originality; no
mind for my own words, no
regard for the verses crying to happen, only
the need to write, write, write,
stupidly, like a dog is forced by instinct,
the insatiable need to spill, to transform, to twist, distort, to prophesy, to-

Some  journal entry reads: healthy coping. Think:
Growth is inevitable.
God is inevitable!
Pain, and fury, and love, are inevitable! Luck -
To take this earth and make it yours,
this oyster,
and realize that it’s also everyone else’s;
(boys, no, kings of summer)
inevitably working together to create beauty,
only one glass case away from bewitching your living room,
from taking its seat right beneath the busy hand of God
and hold up the mirror:
this beauty was you all along. And me. And Him,
and everyone else.
This Father wanted a Son, wanted a daughter, even,
and,
suddenly,
this close to the face and hand and chest of God,
the old fear of 23 turns into excitement
with all our eyes, full of tears, glued on life -
still,
even now -

from top to to bottom i drop
mad flows wear baggy clothes
im ol school sip sryyyup n cisco
blaze blunts slow
blow smoke out the nose
i suppose
haters get a new job
cuz i aint hirin' firin
the whoe commission
we got ammunition
me n boyz neva played with toys
just gats bats to loot quick to shoot
any muthafucka thats moves
dont disturb this groove
we in ya system
"eradicate" the "fake" jews so listen up black folks pay attention
this is ya final warning scorning
every nation no hesitation
as I roll in my big cadillac
with two dope homiez in the back
while spittin' facts
eatin' ******* jacks
yea they quick too gat
so watch ya chit chat
cuz we all that
we tighter than gorilla glue
leave critics stuck open like clue
take a guess we neva stress
we oenophile from being problem child
super flagrant that means im foul
growl always on the prowl
these fools spit
mad constapited
haters embrace the caskets
puttin' terror in the new era
old school in my bones
i keep yall tracked
like military drones uh

cooler than an orangutan
eating a tangerine
naw sloppy me yall just miss me
with bull
pull heat out of my wool
that hair for you dumb dumbs
dump *** **** on a girls mouth
make her go numb
this aint a mystery or a conundrum
sound the drum um
coming with a crazy style flow
funky cut with that hyrdo i blow
skunks forever how can ya endeavor anyting i say is clever
never say never
beat my foes with meat cleaver none could sever
me and rhymes like starsky
and hutch i clutch
this world in my palms
this just one of my pslam
got homie name beanie
no kin to Islam
sound the alarm
yosef causin fire even in the water slaughter
the best who ever test me on the mic dont get next
i used to flex the hardest
up in cheap apartments where all.my freestyles was spent
ninety minutes of tape sessions
the black clark kent
superman these hoes flows
leave ya expose
****** from the tip of ya nose
my lyricism grows and grows
while ******* start hatin'
im creatin'
money in the bundles
chillin' in the hut smoke that good Jamaican what

What an appalling yearning it is...
I feel as my spirit will tear apart my presence
to fly where at the moment it would have to be,
breaking all the chains of reality
My life is addicted to you
What a hard conflict...
What a tough task...
Like a  patient in a deathbed
I need a 'lifeogen' mask.
I had to be moving to you at the moment,
After a while, I had to be sitting waiting for peace
And you had to be coming in
With your warm greetings...

Now, life is beginning there,
Vitality is filling empty spheres
with your blissful voice and laughter
But none of those existing dumbs
can feel it
Someone is sitting face to face with you
Where once I was sitting
Haven't you still felt the difference?!
Haven't you still found out the case?!
Anyone can take my seat,
But no one can take my place...

Can I forgive myself for my selfishness?!
I am sometimes very egoist and ingrate!
You are laughing, you are happy now
and you feel great,
that is the main point.
I scold myself and evade all of my cravings
You know me - I am the soldier of fortune...
Keep your shining and just only laugh, please...

Oh say can you see, through the darkening night
What so meekly we failed to arrest in it's scheming
Whose orange tan and fat thighs, what a depressing sight
On the TV we watched, the lies built up and teeming
And the Foxes dull glares, the twitler's fake hair
Gave proof to the dumbs, that fake news was still there
Oh say does that gop still grovel and sway
Under the guise of the free and the lies of the day

On the border to the south, children taken discreetly
Blame another for our sins, divert and deny
What book of scripture can we use to weakly
Justify our actions, and absolve our blind eyes
Stand up and speak out your minds, all of the crossed lines
History is watching as we sit idly by
Allowing atrocities and helping America die.

These are Christmas poems by Michael R. Burch. Some are darker Christmas poems and heretical Christmas poems.

The First Christmas
by Michael R. Burch

’Twas in a land so long ago . . .
the lambs lay blanketed in snow
and little children everywhere
sat and watched warm embers glow
and dreamed (of what, we do not know).

And THEN—a star appeared on high,
The brightest man had ever seen!
It made the children whisper low
in puzzled awe (what did it mean?).
It made the wooly lambkins cry.

Not far away a new-born lay,
warm-blanketed in straw and hay,
a lowly manger for his crib.
The cattle mooed, distraught and low,
to see the child. They did not know

it now was Christmas day!



Christmas Wishes
by Michael R. Burch

My wish for you, with Christmas near,
is troubles fleeing, fleet as deer,
and peace encompassing as snow,
bright merriment in brilliant flow.

I wish for you, with Christ’s Eve here,
a silver moon should skies seem drear,
white stars to light a festive sky,
sweet warmth caressing from on high.

I wish for you on Christmas day
a tree enchanted, festooned, gay . . .
and Christmas night, as carols play,
bright candles lined in white array.

But most of all, I wish you well,
and so much more than words can tell.
For this and every coming year,
Noel, Noel and Christmas cheer!




Late Frost
by Michael R. Burch

The matters of the world like sighs intrude;
out of the darkness, windswept winter light
too frail to solve the puzzle of night’s terror
resolves the distant stars to salts: not white,

but gray, dissolving in the frigid darkness.
I stoke cooled flames and stand, perhaps revealed
as equally as gray, a faded hardness
too malleable with time to be annealed.

Light sprinkles through dull flakes, devoid of color;
which matters not. I did not think to find
a star like Bethlehem’s. I turn my collar
to trudge outside for cordwood. There, outlined

within the doorway’s arch, I see the tree
that holds its boughs aloft, as if to show
they harbor neither love, nor enmity,
but only stars: insignias I know—

false ornaments that flash, overt and bright,
but do not warm and do not really glow,
and yet somehow bring comfort, soft delight:
a rainbow glistens on new-fallen snow.

I had Robert Frost in mind when I wrote this poem, and thus the title. Frost was fond of the word “arch,” and it’s here because of that fondness. The poem imagines him as an old man and a skeptic, but one who never really made a complete break from his childhood faith. The rainbow created by the “artificial stars” was not something I had planned ... in fact, I believe I wrote that line before I understood that the Christmas tree ornaments were creating the rainbow.



Merry Christmas, Happy New Year

by Michael R. Burch

Merry Christmas!
  Best of wishes!
    Hugs and kisses,
      Carolyn.
Don't do dishes
  or eat fishes.
    You're delicious,
      happenin'.
Happy New Year!
  Hope to see yer
    'round Springwater
       once again.
You're a treasure,
  such a pleasure
    (that's for sure),
      a **** friend.
Now I'm learnin'
  all 'bout yearnin',
    and I'm earnin'
      it, I guess.
I'll be stronger,
  live much longer.
    If I'm wronger,
      I’ll confess.
Had to tell you
  that you're swell; you
    ought to sell you
      for a mil.
If I could,
  I'd (knock on wood)
    be just as good.
      I never will.
Still, I love you,
  thinking of you;
    I eschew to
      tell you why.
If you're ever
  in the market
    (or hard up)
      just call this guy.



King of the World
by the Child Poets of Gaza, an alias of Michael R. Burch

If I were King of the World, I would make
every child free, for my people’s sake.

And once I had freed them, they’d all run and scream
back to my palace, for free ice cream!

Why are you laughing? Can’t a young king dream?

If I were King of the World, I would banish
hatred and war, and make mean men vanish.

Then, in their place, I’d bring in a circus
with lions and tigers (but they’d never hurt us!)

Why are you laughing? What else is a king’s purpose?

If I were King of the World, I would teach
the preachers to always do as they preach;

and so they could practice being of good cheer,
we’d have Christmas —and presents—every day of the year!

Why are you laughing? Some dreams do appear!

If I were King of the World, I would send
my counselors of peace to the wide world’s end ...

But all this hard dreaming is making me thirsty!
I proclaim Pink Lemonade; please bring it in a hurry!

Why are you laughing? Mom’ll make it in a flurry!

If I were King of the World, I’d declare
a year of happiness, with no despair—

only playing allowed, for my joyful subjects!
Not a toy left behind! Repair all rejects!

Why are you laughing? Surely no one objects!

If I were King of the World, I would fire
racists and bigots, with their message so dire.

And we wouldn’t build walls, to shut people out.
I would build amusement parks, have no doubt!

Why are you laughing? Should I use my clout?

If I were King of the World, I would drive
a red Ferrari, like no man alive!

But behind would be busses for my legions of friends:
we’d party like maniacs; the fun never ends!

Why are you laughing? Hop aboard! Let’s be friends!

If I were King of the World, I would make
every child blessed, for my people’s sake,

and every child safe, and every child free,
and every child happy, especially me!

Why are you laughing? Appoint me and see!



White Hot Christmas
by Michael R. Burch

I’m back from my jog;
it felt like summer
on Christmas Eve.
What a ******!
Forget the sleigh, Santa,
hire a Hummer.



Christmas is Coming!
alternate lyrics by Michael R. Burch

Christmas is coming; Trump’s goose is getting plucked.
Please put the Ukraine in his pocketbook.
If you haven’t got the Ukraine, some bartered Kurds will do.
But if you’re short on blackmail, well, the yoke’s on you!

Christmas is coming and Rudy can’t make bail.
Please send LARGE donations, or the Cause may fail.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short on cash, the LASH will fall on you!



Trump puts the X in Xmas
by Michael R. Burch

Christmas is coming; the Trumpster’s purse is flat.
Please put a billion in Fat Cat’s hat.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short of cash, well then, the yoke’s on you!



Trump’s Christmas Shutdown
by Michael R. Burch aka “The Loyal Opposition”

The Grinch is quite proud of his friend Trump tonight:
To see Whoville shut down? “An enormous delight!”

And old cranky Scrooge approves of Trump’s whims:
“Who the hell cares about all those dark Tiny Tims?”

Meanwhile in the Kremlin a ***** glass clinks
As a pale being smiles at his latest hijinks:

“Merry Xmas to all my AmeriKKKan friends
As the bright lights go out and democracy ends!”



Economical Fall
by Michael R. Burch  

The time to make love is autumn;
so kiss your sweethearts (if you’ve got ’em).
Seek ways to keep warm
but observe this norm:
by Christmas be sure you “forgot” ’em!



Yet Another Unmerry Xmas Poem
by Michael R. Burch

the Shepherds should have tended flocks
of sheep, and not become them.

the Wise Men should have used their heads:
religion numbs and dumbs them.

the Angels should have saved their praise
for saviors who can save us

from ludicrous superstitions
and Profits who deprave us.



What happened to compassion;
did it go out of fashion?
Or do Jesus and his Profits
prefer to line white pockets
and colorize dockets?
—Michael R. Burch



Malpractice

by Michael R. Burch

“He needs a new nose,”
Ma said, “suppose—
one that glows!”

The doc agreed
and worked with speed
on Santa’s steed.

The surgery done,
Ma told her son—
“It’s posh, and fun!”

But Rudolph wheezed
and cried and sneezed
with disbelief.

“It should’ve been red!”
the reindeer said,
pale and distraught in his hospital bed.

“Doc, what did you do?
Alas, boo-hoo!
It’s K-Mart-special chintzy blue!”



What Would Santa Claus Say?
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?

Published by Lucid Rhythms, Poet’s Corner and VYBRANÉ PREKLADY BÁSNÍ Z ANGLICTINY, where it was translated into Czech by Vaclav ZJ Pinkava

“And I will **** her children with death; and all the churches shall know that I am he which searcheth the reins [kidneys] and hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works.” (So much for grace according to Revelation 2:23, where Jesus, or someone putting words in his mouth, vows to personally ****** specific children living at the time for their mother’s sins! To make matters even more macabre, one of the “sins” Jesus vows to ****** children for is eating foods offered to idols, which Saint Paul, author of most of the New Testament, said was fine and dandy! According to the gospels, Jesus himself said that Christians could eat anything they liked, because they were not defiled by what they ate. Was Jesus a murderous Indian Giver, or were the writers of the Bible making things up to suit their beliefs?



A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!

Published by Philosophical Percolations and The HyperTexts

Will Jesus Christ cause or allow Albert Einstein and Mahatma Gandhi to be tortured in an "eternal hell" for guessing wrong about which earthly religion to believe? What about Jesus's parable of the Good Samaritan, who put aside religious differences to practice compassion? Did Jesus, who saved all his sternest criticism for hypocrites, talk the talk but fail to walk the walk himself? Or did Christian theologians get something very, very wrong? And what would Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny say about such intolerance and infinite cruelty?

Keywords/Tags: Christmas poems, Christmas day, baby, Jesus, manger, crib, Bethlehem, Star of Bethlehem, star, lambs, children, cattle, oxen, donkey, straw, hay, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, Magi, Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Jesus Christ, Revelation, homosexuals, harlots, Christianity, heaven, hell, salvation, Gandhi, Hindu, saint, knees, kneeling, prayer, mercy, compassion, grace, toys, games, candy

Keywords/Tags: Christmas, day, lambs, star, children, baby, Jesus, manger, crib, cattle, oxen, straw, hay, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, Bethlehem

Here I go a again
Here I go a again
This journey on my own
The destination unknown

From green to brick
The eyes tell no Lyes
Wipe these tears dry

Oh me oh my , oh me oh why⬆

I ant going to lie
I just wana run faster all alone
Won't stop cant stop until I'm done
Destination still unknown

Oh me oh my , oh me oh why
my soul can never lie

Take these shackles for my arms
Pick these feet up and just run
But the world has another plan
Keeps me lock up dumbs me down
I got freedom on my mind
But there is no hope underlined

Oh me oh my , oh me oh why⬆

Some times I feel i could just die

Oh why oh why

But I'm stronger than steel
And one day this will be revealed
Will be free to build my life, I see children and a wife.

But from here I have to go destination still unknown

Wish me luck ,think of me, that some day ill be set free some day they'll set me free,some day ill be set free......... Is someone watching over me I guess someday I shall see.....I guess someday I shall see.....
I guess someday I shall see.....⬇

Rootz Modebelu

www.facebook.com/VidaRootzDesign

http://vidarootz@blogspot.co.uk/

They telling me to go away, they tell me I too insane for this game, where do you want me to go? This is my land, ***** you aint having any of it, look whether genre it is I own it, just like I own you on this beat. So woe at the fact that I've only just started, building up my life like lego. Can't handle my truth or the pessimistic ambiguous narcissistically lyrics I keep hitting you with, time to change up the formula, and put it up with hashtags and send it as a tweet. Can't stand all these people with misogynistic mindsets, i'll set you up with gasoline and light a match at you and watch you burn down to hell. The world is such a swell thing, Jesus no where to be seen, what does it mean? End of the world, archangels creating pain; well that's if you believe that **** man, lie's keep coming; what is real, it's so hard to tell. Fiends behind the screens of life controlling us like puppets, we're so blind but we ignore it continuing  our lives watching shows that dumb us down like Mr.bean. Don't listen to me, I don't really know half of the things i'm saying on my tracks. What are these things you call facts, I'll just continue spitting my hysterical criticism of your ignorant view, with my strong stubborn opinions. I'll steal your knick knacks, because i'm whack, a quack, i'll poison your freshness with my negativity as soon as my words make contact. Cinnamon bun dumb dumbs, do you even know how to function by yourself, your just a minion of the governments dictatorial dominion.

don't tell me you're trying
because I'm still dying
Don't tell me you love me
when I hate it when you give me sympathy
Don't tell me I 'm perfect
because all you say is nonsense
Don't tell me these dumbs lies
you'll probably make me cry

.i never could find atheism satisfying, atheism being nothing more than anthropocentrism; it's nothing more. well, hell, back to the old model dispute: geocentric vs. heliocentric models... why wouldn't atheism be a thesaurus entry on the synonym level, and not be akin to anthropocentrism? pulling out balloons out of my *** like a clown... it later becomes something less inclined to a "dispute" about a "god" or "the gods"... man is still over-powered in instances where his superiority is critically diminished... the biological version of the botanic construct of mistletoe: which is the equivalent  of cancer... i always felt inclined to suspect the pop atheists... or the fact that insects, akin to ants, bees, termites, have a language dedicated to telepathy, just because they're small, doesn't imply that they're not "big"... there are rumours, that humanity wants to achieve a form of telepathy, rumours, nothing to get worried about... would i pray? no... i'd much prefer to study... but i am left dissatisfied with atheism: simply because it's pride in the anthropocentric argumentation... there's a fine line between anthropocentrism, atheism, and egoism... the "rational" cue would probably be associated with something akin to: the horrors of suspect... that beneath all the rituals of faith, there's a thinking contigency of suspicion... i rarely found someone who simply did-away with that fleeting sense of suspicion... and if i am suspect: this whole "thing" is suspect... the shackles of trust... what, akin to the laws of gravity? the creeping ontological predictability of general human affairs, akin to mating and dating? oh they're there... sure, and the sun will rise tomorrow, and this night will pass, these are no more laws of physics, as laws of trust... beneath which... gambling upon the predicament of the unfathomable, which is equal, to gambling upon the predicament on the already fathomable... i didn't exactly convert to judaism: i can't... if they circumcised me, i'd bleed to death... the best i can do is play the role of a ****** with a predicament, the nag hammadi library was unearthed... in egypt... and i became crushed by the gospel of st. thomas... that part where jesus takes thomas aside, and tells him something, thomas goes back to the rest of the disciples and they ask what was said, and he replies: if i told you... you'd stone me... right... so christianity boiled down to playing a game of ******* chinese whispers: he said, she said?! i guess that reaction was inevitable... given i already became a catholic apostate having read some gnostic works, and never became confirmed... well, it's like i was given a choice over my baptism, but with regards to confirmation? yeah, i took that **** seriously, even if i wanted i couldn't get a church wedding... i haven't been confirmed.

faux pas, "god"...
                   and all that non-existing
prayer "gone to waste"...
well...
    not really...
           blurry lines...
the sensible atheistic argument...
not when the argument is arrived at
from... a disposition of fear...
    rather than claiming some insightful
bias...
            suicide? tried that once...
hanging from a tree...
             the tree ended up being
chopped down...
but... strangely replanted
itself in my neighbour's garden...
now i watch it grow,
arch and cast a decent amount
of shadow...
                      if i'll have a dream,
i'll write it down,
   but i guess, most of the time,
            i'm plagued with "dreams"
of the grand void...
                an abyss that eats me,
where no images pass,
   no narratives...
                  no yesterday akin
to that story of paul mcCartney...
   no, just the sleep,
        and the grand void...
       apparently i groan and moan
in my sleep,
       i couldn't tell you...
              but i can tell you that
the "dreams" become so violent that
i am thrown out of bed
and end up waking up on the floor...
is it associated with the alcohol
consumption?
            perhaps... probably...
will i stop?
                     stop what?
                          it's this weird
assurance from a deity...
                        concerning suicide -
an unconscious fear
                                        of non-being...
tell that to someone who is
easily susceptible to a dream like water
infiltration process...
          "dreams" or rather: a lack of...
a momentary lapse into the figurehead
of ego in charon's empty head...
            groaning and being thrown
out of the bed, landing on the floor...
         i was right about
        the high blood pressure
genetic inheritance...
    how quickly that balloon head feeling
of an explosion disappeared
                      one mid-afternoon
               when i came off the pepsi...
talk about the aspect of the body
replying with an in-built barometer
                      faculty...
    old people always complain
about the atmospheric pressure
         doing a sadistic circus on their well-being
with regards to bones,
    and other body parts...
high pressure...
atmospheric high pressure and
they feel like ****...
   now take this and invert it onto
a canvas of high blood pressure...
      for once,
          beyond the headache sensation
of a brain - rarely felt -
   as if: the brain trying to find
an exit, and merge itself with
    a mind - that component of translating
brain, and the posit of a body
as a soul...
                headache: knock-knock...
body: who's there?
      headache: brian, he's going mental!
i guess the 1st tier of understanding
is gastronomical...
the 2nd tier being philosophical...
the 3rd tier having something to do
with all the current psychological constraints
and predictors...
         but the sort of "ache"
associated with high blood pressure...
brain turns all swiss cheese sponge
b'ah-b'ah...
                  the jaw dumbs,
   the tongue cannot be placed comfortably
in any position in the closed mouth...
and the teeth start to itch...
   not even chewing gum helps;
as ever...
             does it matter what i've written,
or does it matter, how i've written it?

I Still Have Ego Left

I still have ego - all its parts.
Is it the ‘smarts’?
Is it the ‘dumbs’?
Something to succumb to?
On the good side ego gives me self-esteem.
On bad, it gives me self-conceit,
Leads me to think sour is sweet,
Leads me on a road that’s wrong:
Vanity, a false self image;
Is that knowledge or mirage?  
Singing a wrong, woeful song?

Do I want to **** it?
Subjugate it?
Maybe, just an itty bit!
Why quash, why squash
Distinctiveness, uniqueness,
And the differentness
That makes us us,

Even when peculiarity,
You are you and I am me.
We do not want to change that, yet
The ego fools us masterfullly.
Wresting honesty from wisdom.

So with ego left, the outcome is:
Learn to distinguish real from false;
Take the pulse of life each day
And play the game of authenticity.
I Still Have Ego Left 8.14.2018 Circling Round Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin

They will never see the full picture
they’ve already reduced you
to little more than a vessel to pour their slack self-worth into.
They just see just the negative as proof
you’re ready to reel into the predatory pantomime of illusory superiority.

In their minds that will never stretch to encompassed yours,
they’re the catch
in ours,
they’re the bait we don’t want to take
because we know that catch
is the spring of a mousetrap,
the hook on a line,
the cage waiting to close around us,
the expectation of something more from someone less.
You get what you pay for,
and what you never invited to come creeping in
from behind blue light
that depicts your portrait in grainy resolution
and dumbs you down
til your own knuckles are causing friction in fetid minds.