The gurgle of the coffee maker,
The clink of your spoon on the frigid counter,
The sizzle of bacon residue in a frying pan,

and an egg cracking over it.

The murmurs of the news reporters on the tv,
The distant roar of a train in the background,
The dive into sensory pleasure,

while reality dissipates.

The smell of hazelnut creamer and cinnamon,
The taste of a waffle with buttery syrup,
The warm sun on your face through the window,

today is good; today will be different.

The giggles of the waffles and coffee,
The light conversation and hard laughter,
The feeling of home... within them,

a sudden shift in atmosphere.

The sharp loss of appetite
The grieving of what wasn’t lost
The shared remorse for nothing you’ve done

they tell you that you’re pathetic.

The despair in your mug dropping into the table
The swallowed tears and screams
The chaos that covers every square inch of you

distance between you and hope still stands.

The ***** kitchen and your empty stomach
The distressing moonlight that creeps in the window
The anger in thinking you’re liberated this time

sounds of an empty home stir.

The cold seats that have accompanied nobody
The wallowing roar of silence
The jacket of despair that wears you

your average day.

my fingertips are cold, with slowed movement
and there is a grace to them, dancing in such a sorrowful way
I'd almost think they were longing for someone
to hold them, locking each other, and brushing against

and yet, my mind grows uneasy at that idea of warmth
I draw my frigid hands away, escaping the touch
how unbearable it would be, in all reality
they remain as they are, how i'd prefer, lonely.

I miss you,
West Texas,
You more than most.
I miss people
And things
But I’ve never missed more,
Than I’ve missed you.
One day, I’ll return to you,
And we’ll be together until I die,
My dear West Texas.
Some say your deserts are unbearably hot,
And I say,
It’s easier to make shade
Than a fire.
Picturesque cacti,
Blooming in the spring,
Sunsets that put oil paintings to shame,
And wild mustangs escaping man’s unyielding possession,
Just like me.
I can see them running along the dusty banks
Of a wide river in canyon carved by the Great Artist Himself,
West Texas,
I want to drive a rusty old truck through hot afternoons till frigid nights,
Miles and miles of sweet loneliness,
Until it’s just you and I,
And I can watch your brilliant display of stars move
Across the endless horizon.
Desert owls,
A serpent’s rattling warning,
Creatures that crave solitude,
As I do,
Emerge in the night,
Like the neon lights of lonely bars in the middle of nowhere,
Sweet prickly pear in perfect harmony with Jose Cuervo in my glass,
A tribute to my lonely West Texas,
Singing me a tune of cicada chirps and desert winds,
And the jingle of spurs on concrete floors,
As the men,
As old and covered in sand as the bar itself,
Make their way in from isolated jobs miles away,
To listen to Tejano,
And sip on that cactus nectar,
Distilled by the Great Bartender
For a night like this,
In my West Texas,
Perfectly lonely,
Perfectly perfect.
I just want it to be me and you
And your hot red sand,
I want to see those yellow blossoms bursting from the deceptively spiny hands of desert life,
I want to hang a dusty, wide brimmed hat above dusty leather boots when I come home,
I want the sky to explode with color,
As a reward for enduring a long day of the heat,
And when the rare jewels from heaven fall, and nourish your cracked ground,
And peace is sworn between all animals,
Predators and prey,
For that moment,
So that all may celebrate the loving dew sent by our Great Caretaker,
I want to dance on your planes,
Twirl in the rain,
And let the drops fall between my lips like the crevices of your canyons,
Brought to life when you are,
Slumber when you do,
Live each day as you live,
My sweet West Texas.

Nudge a numb cockroach and he'll love you for life
just ***** little lemonheads
can't actually survive a nuclear explosion
but can cause catastrophic evolutionary queries
like "Why do the good die young?"
Can you believe
that long ago only the bad died elderly
and were witches with elixirs
potions and spells to make God blush and his **** turn to mush
so powerful
they made people go crazy with
judgement and micromanaging
but I'm the real witch
right-o I ride broomsticks and eat toads for snacks
my back is a lump of coal from the Devil's morning hookah
smoke billows from my ears
cockroaches my best friends
we cut off our heads and run into fridges
my pelvis is frigid except
for those **** roaches.

by what light!this pains' dismay is taught and frigid
it is the earth upholding my footfalls genial and slow
i tread and mark the soil as turning sunder:the stain
last frail and withered node of light 7fold and thrice
the hills are marching under that calamity of orange
duskish and fowling their curvaceous hide. i'm loose and tight
in folds of grass. and i walk

                                    and i walk

                                                   and i    w
                                                                         a


                                                                                   l;
                                                                                     K

In hope
of skies blue,
vast and undeterred
are drying tears-
collected by unseen smiles

In threats of frigid
but burning ground below
is repentance-

A repentance found both sooner and later
One heavy with pastures of green- but none ever greener

In ancient words
from gilded pages,
bound in leather
hope and need

Are no ripe answers for the raging revolution,
only variant notions
shifting from here to there- and back again

The method of the three,
is mystery
beyond compare-

Black like the dark hours
that hide
the light of the day

Now and then-
all that can be done,
is to follow-
on bloodied foot,
over barren land

The aim of the carpenter
and his dinner guests
is and always was
direction

Purpose from an old- but new compass
in which one chooses to follow, deny
or silently go in search of other lovers-
all of a lesser degree

At the table of offering-
is space for bended knee
and an odd but abstract desire
for service

Not to self-
but to those who surround,
and swim in the very sea
in which the struggle
it is to cross

At the heart of creation
are mountains
and sandy crystalline beaches,
then city roads

All leading to country lanes,
fields, rivers, lakes
and vague dreams

Alas though,
no discernible
or translucent choice prevails-

All that's left
is the true and meaningful will-
of the weary traveler

The bed is cold when you turn in at night
   because the frigid winter winds have settled in too
   and like a fool you left the window open all day
You take a dab of speed as the lamp goes dim
   its the only thing to keep tumescence
   when you make love to a lover you no longer love
******* is no longer sport, only a chore
   and the night birds at the window sing a song of sadness
   beady eyes keeping tabs on the city boy's blues
When the day is done the television screeches, unreality television
   you're so depressed and you have nothing, not even sleep
   and the cold body beside you snores through the night
Even on rare occasions of sleep, you only dream of dying
   fiery bus brought with peasant's tokens is burning
   as it flies over some cliff face and you remain stoic
Waking only in afternoon sunsets with a sore head and dry mouth
   stumble down the stairs to an empty kitchen and the cat has **** again
   you clean the mess and make a sandwich, no topping just butter
How many days can pass before you crawl to the shop to buy food
   and you contemplate suicide as you scrape the tub of butter again
   falling upstairs in a somber stupor, vomiting after eating
She comes home from work and calls it off, packing her bags
   you roll another joint without words being spoken
   she closes the door and the already broken window breaks more
Smoking on your herbal solitude and preparing the last hit
   that sweet tender brown in a spoon you found
   it hits the vein and you feel happiness, first and final time
Sitting in some trash-found chair and reading Camus
   these are the final moments, surely you cannot hold on
   Abner Jay is playing and you fall asleep forever

The clouds separated the Sun from my life for too long
I wondered if it even existed
And if it existed
Would it know I existed?
It's warm companionship eluded me
I was frozen in the wastelands
I donned my armor of ice
And embraced all that is frigid and bleak
My feet turned into rockets as flowers bloomed all around me
I rode headfirst into the sky on a jet of pure nature
I cut through the friction in the air
And exploded through the clouds
The Sun's disorienting light loved me
Without vision I flew to it's warmth
When I reached the Sun I kissed it on the mouth
and we danced around the galaxy
And the Sun radiated our love to every living creature in the universe

But the Sun abandoned me out in space
The Sun returned to giving life to all
And I am but one
I just thought that maybe I could help it give life
Because at one point I was a star
Now I'm just dust
Is it so selfish to want it's power for myself?

I've been floating in darkness for a while
And I feel very Alien: Isolation right now
But this is no game
And Sigourney Weaver couldn't fight my monsters
Game over, man

​​     I was ten years old when I wrote it.
One lone sentence. A sentence that would become my mantra; the sentence that defines my existence.

I wish I were dead.

I first wrote it in my journal. Then a couple days later, I wrote it again. Then again. And again and again and again. Until eventually, the pages had all been claimed. Each line on each page reiterated one phrase – I wish I were dead.

Although I was merely a fourth grader, this was no passing phrase (get it?). Ten years separate me from that lone sentence, yet I am ready as ever.

​I wish I were dead. I wish I were dead. I WISH I WERE DEAD.

​This is how I feel six days out of seven.
I can no longer count the number of failed attempts, the static loony-bin trips, the hospital hopping routine – a process I’ve memorized verbatim.

Can’t say how many times I’ve survived these garbage disposals for the insane.

You’d think if I really wanted to die, I’d be dead already. Yet, in a bizarre manner, not even the Grim Reaper wants me. I’ve consumed rat poison and lived, rolled my mom’s car and escaped without a scratch, tumbled from heights so high, yet – here I am.

One night, last summer, I mixed molly with coke with ****** with so much liquor – because liquor is quicker – thinking for certain I’d orchestrated my demise. Some of my friends were squatting in this foreclosed house, so there was no electricity, and I spent hours playing Sims with some girl in the dark.

Eventually, my computer died – but I didn’t.

The list goes on.

On this list, there’s one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. A night I’ll forever regret. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away.

This is how it went.



​     The Last Supper was comprised of 150 assorted pills, and some secondhand Jack Daniels.
​
I ate alone. I’d exchanged dining hall for bathroom; chair for bathtub. I held one lone utensil – a razor blade – nestled safely in my hand. Cradling the blade like a child who found the cookie jar – the way my boyfriend worshiped a fresh syringe of ******; I snuggled that sacred utensil.

I failed to savor this Last Supper – for dine and dash would more appropriately summarize my actions. I ravaged the meal as a stray dog would raw meat. Gagging and choking, whilst feeling nothing at all.

All those pills, that jack, I poured into a jar and chugged like a freshman in college. (Get it?) The most unconventional supper you ever did see.

My makeshift chair filled slowly with water like concrete – and soon I’d be buried alive. So I squeezed the razor tight, pretending it was a loved one’s hand instead.

​Yet – nothing happened.

I considered my lone utensil – the blade – then laughed, and threw it aside. How high school of me – a time when I confused my wrist with a cutting-board. Oh, silly me; my insides could do the work without external additions.

​However, the nausea hit before I’d relinquished consciousness. I feared I would toss my cookies – ones stolen from the cookie jar – before they could toss me.

​An important factor to note is this was not my house. It belonged to my boyfriend’s aunt. And although she was not home – he was. Earlier, I’d thrown a knife at his head and told him I was glad Morgan died, to ensure he’d leave me be, but now I was bored and nauseous and so I got up and left the Last Supper to pursue a bad cliché I just died in your arms tonight.
​ What happened next is not important – I’ll fast-forward to what is.

The first to come was a young girl.
​She wore her blonde hair in two braids. Her tiny body, adorned in a loose, blue dress. Her feet were sheathed in neat white socks beneath modest, black slippers; slippers that matched her headband. A headband to cradle her mind.

​Her existence stupefied mine – for I knew at once who she was. And I was terrified.

This girl was coasting her eighth birthday. A birthday she’d never reach.

And yet – she was as wise as I am thin; far wiser than my nineteen-year-old self. She never spoke, but there was no need. Everyone talks, but seldom is speech genuine. Only in actions can we find the truth.

I’d waited my whole life for her. My true, beloved best friend. A girl as imaginary as could be.

Alison Wonderland.

Unfortunately, she had no intention of staying. She had no interest in my world; she’d only come to take me to hers. She’d come to take me away. Far away. Away so far I could never return.

This time – finally – I’d be gone for good.

My whole life I’d waited; now, she’d finally come. Not to join my life. She’d come to watch me die.

We both knew my lifespan would hardly outlast the hour.

Collapsed within a shower, I floundered for words. Separated from her by a mere pane of glass. She was so close. And yet, I was far from happy – I’d nearly surpassed hyperventilation. Literally stunned to death.

This beautiful angel maintained composure, however; unaltered by my frigid welcome. An unwavering smile illustrated her entire physic, whilst she offered her hand to mine – arm outstretched and waiting.

The ultimate invitation.

However, we were not alone. Not two, but three souls occupied this bathroom. The bathroom of my Last Supper.

On my side of the glass was a man. A man I knew. A man I loved. A man whose manhood was verified by little more than age – 25. Whilst numbers generally distinguish between childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, he was much more a boy than a man. His maturity – vastly negated by defining characteristics. You see, this 25-year-old boy was also a pathological liar, a sociopath, and a ****** addict. He was the stranger your mommy warned you not to talk to – and he was my boyfriend.

My boyfriend, our third addition, was christened Daniel no-middle-name Rodden. An alias more accurately spelled Rotten – which I knew, but refused to accept. So instead, he was just Danny.

Anyways.

I surrendered consciousness slowly. I was crumpled, trembling and mumbling, grappling to sit up or speak.

With all my strength I pointed, terrified and confused, at Alison.

“How is she here?” I wanted to scream. “How’d she get in? What’s happening?”

“What are you talking about?” Danny’s voice wondered. “There’s no one out there. I promise I promise.”

He must have been blind. For Alison remained, hand outstretched, waiting and waiting.

However, Danny Rotten and Alison Wonderland could not see each other. Nor could they hear or feel one another. They existed within uncorrelated dimensions. They were, in fact, entirely irrelevant to one another, compromised by one single factor. Me. Because not only was I physically dying – directly between them (monkey in the middle?) – my consciousness floundered amidst their two wonderlands.

But this was temporary, for we all knew I had less than an hour to make a choice; a life with this toxic boy, or a death with this loving girl. Death, which I’d coveted since I was ten. This decision could not be undone; I could not keep them both.

I never took this hand I was offered – Alison Wonderland’s – I clung to Danny instead. A decision I’ll forever regret. But I had yet to meet the Grimm Reaper.

Somehow, I’d been transported back into the bathtub. I sat back at the table of my Last Supper. Only, this time, I was not to dine alone.
I remember Danny’s face – if only for a split second – covering mine. His handsome, Spanish features contorted in fear; even mussed and wet, his dark hair swam across his forehead with graceful finesse.

On his face I’d never seen such emotion, nor will I ever again.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I lost sight of that face. I knew he was speaking, perhaps even yelling, his physic – inches from my own. But then, the stampede arrived, trampling him whole.

Empty handed, Alison might have left. But this evaded me.

For into the room poured innumerable intruders. My ghostly escort, it would appear. Some spoke to me, some avoided. Some set up a poker game in the corner – waiting on my choice – whilst others conjured chairs like rabbits from a hat. Chairs they set up around this bathtub. Enveloped in bodies, my Final Supper had become a banquet of sorts. Danny tried to hand me a bucket, to throw up my poison, but I was so weak I couldn’t have held it had I wanted to.

Out of all these people – souls I presumed dead – I recognized only two faces.

Preston and Henry. Two boys I knew – and although ****** addicts, they were alive and well. Not ghosts like the rest. However, within the next two weeks those two would both overdose and nearly die.

Coincidence? I think not. Yet, I digress.  

That was when he appeared, for above the bathtub stood a window. Outside that window, I glimpsed a man. A man I’d been chasing since I was ten.

Mister Grimm. I remember not his attire, nor any defining details, only the expression on his face as his eyes singed my own. Complete and utter hatred and malice, with fatal intentions. He looked to me as his arch nemesis – and had I invited him in, he would have given me what I’d always wanted. I knew this to be true.

I knew also that, although Alison had appeared to be the defining choice, she was not. This man was. And in that pivotal moment, I began to scream.

I screamed for Danny – to make this Grimm go away, to tell him to leave.

Danny did. And when I next looked up, the man was no more. Gone, too, was everyone else. I took Danny’s bucket, hurled, and knew no more.

This is one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away. A night I’ll forever regret. Sometimes, however, I wonder if it was not mister Grim I was looking at, but Danny’s reflection: the monster he soon became.

Or, perhaps, it was not a male I saw in that window.

Perhaps, It was myself.

there's a ghost in this house
& teeth marks in my tongue
from the times I've had to stop myself.
if you want me to walk with you,
put me in a greenhouse
so I won't complain about
the frigid air.
hold me close,
not when I cry
but when our eyes meet
and there's tears in mine.
and when I turn into
that ghost
when I become
hallowed out and dry and sick,
like a cicada;
(it will happen)
when my brain is reduced to
leftover spaghetti mush
and my eyes are glazed over
glazed like the cake I would never eat
if it's you, you can touch me

oh my God it's so cold here

Run.
Running.
Early in the morn.
Cold.
Crisp.
Dark.
Feet pounding
against the asphalt.
Air is frigid.
Breath is hot.
In cool,
out warm.
"You only get what you put in"
Sweat drips,
hands clammy.
Rain falls,
clothes soaked.
Skin is frigid.
Shoes are hot.
My feet burn
as I run;
past curbs,
past cars,
past homes,
past people,
past civilization.
Work.
Working.
Just for fun.
No.
Just to please.
"I am not perfect.
I must be perfect."
Push.
Push harder.
Run.
Run faster.
Go.
Go away further.
Think less.
Breathe more.
Find strength and power.
Hatred.
Sadness.
Doubt.
Anger.
Run away
from hungry hands
grabbing for your ankles.
Run away
to somewhere better.
Leave the darkness of
hate
screams
sorrow
weeps
mistakes
regrets.
"Come."
he says.
"to my arms,
let me hold you,
let me take away
the black matter
in your heart."
he says.
I will forgive you.
I will bring you light again
Come, please
Let me hold you"*
Beep
Run is over.
The sun is risen
outside.
The light shines
in my eyes again.
Edorphines
injected into my veins.
Time to go home.
Enough running for now.

whenever I feel the tremble start to ooze its way
from my compact mind to the tips of my fingers,
I immediately anticipate the fate
that I have always been able to foresee
whenever that familiar first jolt of an anxiety attack sails its way,
like a vessel in a storm
throughout my entire body

heart pounds an intolerable caution
lungs wheeze frigid determination with a rough friction
that lightly scrapes my core with a ticklish flutter
shoulders lift up into a hunch; absolutely automatic
the top tray of teeth lock clenched into the bottom tray’s hold
a fleet of air hisses in and out of two nostrils like a monk’s meditation
capacious eyes flicker from
the lid to the lash to the iris to the pupil to see everything

everyone is staring
everything is too intimidating to look at for longer than two seconds
then, the tunnel
the clearest, acute vision waters into a soft edged frame,
into a pixel mud of a picture, into a black peripheral,
black corners rounding in – a narrow and petty circle
I use it and follow it to wherever my
deepened impulse decides to take me

silently contemplating,
silently speculating,
silently examining
the fears I let my feeble self
get swallowed up in.

Now that it's past the time
that all reasonable people go to sleep,
I warm my engine
and roll alone through sick slickened city streets.
Roads rise up in strips
there polished black backs reflect up a red ribbon of road
beaming down from the two electric eyes,
telling me where to head to next.
With concentration my eyes pick shadows from the dark
and i slide past them
breaking there delicate images
with the water that whips off my balding wheels.
The radio blares stupidly
because he's a ladies man
because they aren't going to take it
because he has 99 problems
because Jesus loves you
because...
There is no reason for this.
For burning fossil fuels
as i rip through the frigid night.
No reason,
for singing the tune
to the words i don't know.
No reason,
for speeding up
and letting go.
No reason,
to let myself spin at last
screeching,
screaming,
and finally smiling,
through that final crossroad.
They will find me,
broken and content,
blood pooling and painting,
a polished portrait of my shortened and hurried life.

Cracking up, like an iceberg,
And just as cold
I lose shards of myself
Into this black abyss that is my mind.
Whole pieces of me fall,
Unwanted.
I am lost.
I become nothing, water streaming and not stopping
Sections of my entirety
Lost.
I drift these unhappy miles
Searching, searching
For a wisp of myself and my original soul,
But I am lost.
Unseen beneath these slick waves
I distance me from all my other atoms
Forgetting
With all my power and all my malice
I could have crushed you first.

Bundled up and toasted
Stare to the exorbitant heavens
A dimmed electrifying spirit world
Leaving only one trifling light on

A slight single frozen tear
Rides the broad frigid air
To the glaring reality below

The silky cotton takes time
Flowing through a lingering life
Of chilled floating bliss

It taps the up turned nose
Tiny frozen feet make a stand

An intense tickle flows through the pumping veins
Leaving a feeling of pricking cherub kisses

Nervous life lungs squeeze
Releasing a single reclined breath

Concrete relaxed steam
Rubs the tufted sapped lips
Dissolving into the hazed sky

She has arrived
Mother Winter

Lady Winter

I.
When surly Winter sighs, her icy breath
Makes adults think of coming death,
Makes children think of falling snow,
Ice skates and sleds and away they go....

II.
Alone among her Sisters, Winter holds such power
To stop the World, to drift in Time, if only for her hour.
She puts the trees and fields to sleep,
Then covers lakes and land 'neath sheets,
And though she tucks them into bed,
Their sleeping form is of the dead.

III.
This Lady White whose frigid face
Turns from the sun with chilly grace
Has for herself a single duty:
The world to rest in icy beauty.
In the North, where'er she goes,
She dresses lands with icy snows.
In gowns of ermine stand the trees
White trains of down lie at their lees.
She sets the plain with crystal lakes,
And sugars hills with frosted flakes.
Where ever she in beauty goes,
The icy Queen her magic sows.

IV.
Strange sister of four Seasons,
Her face, at first, seems set in Death,
But we who walk out on her icy grounds,
Traverse a frozen pond or wander rounds
Deep into her forests fast asleep, know well,
We who stop to listen and to look can tell,
Life's certitude awaits the end of chilly Winter's icy fling.
(Congregation: "Even so come quickly, Lady Spring!")

Cold street, warm pub,
slits like neon--warm up,
smile from chin to jeans,
a warm V, warms me,
sour beer, sweet waitress,
a sad and teased egress.

I form a V with my digits,
and give it a kiss,
exhale hot into air that's frigid.
if only sweet waitress.

White mountains capped in satin,
North face hiding behind a veil of frigid diamonds.

How I long to caress your powdered cheeks.
To float down your ivory aisles.
How I long to toast your champagne kiss.
To hear you softly whisper "I do" beneath my feet.
How I long to traverse across your velvet curves.
To fall head over heels into your feathery embrace.

It's something.

Old friends
New snow
Borrowed time
Blue sky

There's just something about getting cold feet.
I could wed you every single day & never grow tired of this frosted bliss.

Lately your belly laughs and dry humor are flooding my mind. The only times we make eye contact are over volleyball nets and ice cream sales. Once the most important man in my life, you no longer fill the position. I fired you.
But then again, it’s like you quit. Instead of asking me about my day, you tell me about your new girlfriend. I’m beginning to forget the directions in which the wrinkles around your eyes move. I can’t exactly pinpoint your gray hairs anymore. You once embraced me with a father’s love but now pat your hand on my back.
Despite the frigid weather when you left, it didn’t seem so cold. But nine months has now felt like nine years and the temperature has only declined. It’s no surprise considering communication has never been your strong suit. Every time you speak is a cliffhanger. I am dangling from heights unknown, waiting for an answer that may not come. I want to submerge myself in your company and harmonize our voices in conversation. How are you?
My eyes do not reflect the chocolate brown in yours but instead radiate blue like the ocean. Unfortunately this is not our only contrast. Funny how years ago our faces were so similar but now that things have changed our only mutual feature is our height.
You’re half my original chromosomes but I don’t even know half of your day. Where do you go when it’s dark and the moon is shining down over you? What do you call home? Your absence is a mystery I cannot solve. The position I once promised you has been filled by a more qualified candidate; you wonder why I’m always with my boyfriend.
Although I am angry, I am sure this is unintentional. My hope is that this is only temporary. The only question is, how long will you be gone; when will you re-apply?

Righteous
by Michael R. Burch

Come to me tonight
in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising,
spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer.

Gather your hair
and pin it up, knowing
that I will release it a moment anon.

We are not one,
nor is there a scripture
to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms,

but the swarms
of bright stars revolving above us
revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers.

Published in Writer’s Gazette and Tucumcari Literary Review.
Keywords/Tags: righteous, love, lovers, night, stars, twilight, moon, spectral, ancient, scripture, arms, hair, revel, ardent, passion, passionate, desire, lust, ***, lovers



Only Let Me Love You
by Michael R. Burch

after Rabindranath Tagore's "Come as You Are"

Only let me love you, and the pain
of living will be easier to bear.
Only let me love you. Nay, refrain
from pinning up your hair!

Only let me love you. Stay, remain.
A face so lovely never needs repair!
Only let me love you to the strains
of Rabindranath on a soft sitar.

Only let me love you, while the rain
makes music: gentle, eloquent, sincere.
Only let me love you. Don’t complain
you need more time to make yourself more fair!

Only let me love you. Stay, remain.
No need for rouge or lipstick! Only share
your tender body swiftly ...



Homeless Us
by Michael R. Burch

The coldest night I ever knew
the wind out of the arctic blew
long frigid blasts; and I was you.

We huddled close then: yes, we two.
For I had lost your house, to rue
such bitter weather, being you.

Our empty tin cup sang the Blues,
clanged—hollow, empty. Carols (few)
were sung to me, for being you.

For homeless us, all men eschew.
They beat us, roust us, jail us too.
It isn’t easy, being you.

Published by Street Smart, First Universalist Church of Denver, Mind Freedom Switzerland and on 20+ web pages supporting the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities



Minor Key Duet
by Michael R. Burch

Without the drama of cymbals
or the fanfare and snares of drums,
I present my case
stripped of its fine veneer:
Behold, thy instrument.

Play, for the night is long.

Originally published by Brief Poems



****** Errata
by Michael R. Burch

I didn’t mean to love you; if I did,
it came unbid-
en, and should’ve remained hid-
den!



If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch

If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude
without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.

If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.

If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.



The Drawer of Mermaids
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to Alina Karimova, who was born with severely deformed legs and five fingers missing. Alina loves to draw mermaids and believes her fingers will eventually grow out.

Although I am only four years old,
they say that I have an old soul.
I must have been born long, long ago,
here, where the eerie mountains glow
at night, in the Urals.

A madman named Geiger has cursed these slopes;
now, shut in at night, the emphatic ticking
fills us with dread.
(Still, my momma hopes
that I will soon walk with my new legs.)

It’s not so much legs as the fingers I miss,
drawing the mermaids under the ledges.
(Observing, Papa will kiss me
in all his distracted joy;
but why does he cry?)

And there is a boy
who whispers my name.
Then I am not lame;
for I leap, and I follow.
(G’amma brings a wiseman who says

our infirmities are ours, not God’s,
that someday a beautiful Child
will return from the stars,
and then my new fingers will grow
if only I trust Him; and so

I am preparing to meet Him, to go,
should He care to receive me.)



Almost
by Michael R. Burch

We had—almost—an affair.
You almost ran your fingers through my hair.
I almost kissed the almonds of your toes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

You almost contemplated using Nair
and adding henna highlights to your hair,
while I considered plucking you a Rose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost found the words to say, “I care.”
We almost kissed, and yet you didn’t dare.
I heard coarse stubble grate against your hose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

You almost called me suave and debonair
(perhaps because my chest is pale and bare?).
I almost bought you edible underclothes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost asked you where you kept your lair
and if by chance I might ****** you there.
You almost tweezed the redwoods from my nose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire
on gliding feet; we almost waltzed on air ...
until I mashed your plain, unpolished toes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher.
We almost sat in love’s electric chair
to be enlightninged, till our hearts unfroze.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.



Options Underwater: The Song of the First Amphibian
by Michael R. Burch

               “Evolution’s a Fishy Business!”

1.
Breathing underwater through antiquated gills,
I’m running out of options. I need to find fresh Air,
to seek some higher Purpose. No porpoise, I despair
to swim among anemones’ pink frills.

2.
My fins will make fine flippers, if only I can walk,
a little out of kilter, safe to the nearest rock’s
sweet, unmolested shelter. Each eye must grow a stalk,
to take in this green land on which it gawks.

3.
No predators have made it here, so I need not adapt.
Sun-sluggish, full, lethargic—I’ll take such nice long naps!
The highest form of life, that’s me! (Quite apt
to lie here chortling, calling fishes saps.)

4.
I woke to find life teeming all around—
mammals, insects, reptiles, loathsome birds.
And now I cringe at every sight and sound.
The water’s looking good! I look Absurd.

5.
The moral of my story’s this: don’t leap
wherever grass is greener. Backwards creep.
And never burn your bridges, till you’re sure
leapfrogging friends secures your Sinecure.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online



Egbert the Adorable Octopus

Egbert the Octopus
is so **** cute
& smarter than u
(the point is moot)
’cause he doesn’t pollute
when he commutes,
only, perhaps,
when he (ahem) “poots”!
—michael r. burch

I have also seen the diminutive Einstein’s name rendered as Eggbert the Octopus. Check him out on YouTube!



A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares
by Michael R. Burch

March hares,
beware!
Spring’s a tease, a flirt!

This is yet another late freeze alert.
Better comfort your babies;
the weather has rabies.



Cold Snap Coin Flip
by Michael R. Burch

Rise and shine,
The world is mine!
Let’s get ahead!

Or ...

Back to bed,
Old sleepyhead,
Dull and supine.



Monarch
by Michael R. Burch

I had a little caterpillar,
it wove a cocoon for its villa.
When I blinked an eye
what did I espy?
It flew off, a regal butterfly!



Moonflower
by Michael R. Burch

after Robert Hayden

Marveling,
we at last beheld the achieved flower—
both awed and repelled by its alienness,
its moonlit petals,
its cloying fragrance,
its transcendence,
its shimmering and wavering intimations of mortality ...



Ebb Tide
by Michael R. Burch
after Goethe

Ebb tide.
The sea is wide.
In the depths
dark things abide.

Hush, pale child.
Never fear.
None as dark
as men, my dear.

Ebb tide.
The sea is wide.
In the depths
dark creatures glide.

Hush, now father.
Never fear.
Men are nothing
where you are.



How could I understand?
by Michael R. Burch

for the victims of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb blasts

How could I understand
that light
might
be painful?

That sight
might
be crossed?

How could I understand
the cost
of my ignorance,
or the sun’s
inflorescence?

Who was there to tell me
that I, too,
might be one of the
Lost?



TRANSLATIONS OF PERSIAN POETRY

Two Insomnias
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When I’m with you, we’re up all night;
when we’re apart, I can’t sleep.
Thank God for both insomnias
and their inspiration.



I was so drunk my lips got lost requesting a kiss.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



She Was Very Pretty
by Michael R. Burch

She was very pretty, in the usual way
for (perhaps) a day;
and when the boys came out to play,
she winked and smiled, then ran away
till one unexpectedly caught her.

At sixteen, she had a daughter.

She was fairly pretty another day
in her squalid house, in her pallid way,
but the skies ahead loomed drably grey,
and the moonlight gleamed jaundiced on her cheeks.

She was almost pretty perhaps two weeks.

Then she was hardly pretty; her jaw was set.
With streaks of silver scattered in jet,
her hair became a solemn iron grey.
Her daughter winked, then ran away.

She was hardly pretty another day.

Then she was scarcely pretty; her skin was marred
by liver spots; her heart was scarred;
her child was grown; her life was done;
she faded away with the setting sun.

She was scarcely pretty, and not much fun.

Then she was sparsely pretty; her hair so thin;
but a light would sometimes steal within
to remind old, stoic gentlemen
of the rules, and how girls lose to win.



Song Cycle
by Michael R. Burch

Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!

Nay, the future is looking glummer.
Sing us a song of Summer!

Too late, there’s a pall over all;
sing us a song of Fall!

Desist, since the icicles splinter;
sing us a song of Winter!

Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!



Over(t) Simplification
by Michael R. Burch

“Keep it simple, stupid.”

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful,
or comforting, or horrifying. Move
the reader, and the world will not reprove
the idiosyncrasies of too few lines,
too many syllables, or offbeat beats.

It only matters that she taps her feet
or that he frowns, or smiles, or grimaces,
or sits bemused—a child—as images
of worlds he’d lost come flooding back, and then . . .
they’ll cheer the poet’s insubordinate pen.

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful.



The Less-Than-Divine Results of My Prayers to be Saved from Televangelists
by Michael R. Burch

I’m old,
no longer bold,
just cold,
and (truth be told),
been bought and sold,
rolled
by the wolves and the lambs in the fold.

Who’s to be told
by this worn-out scold?
The complaint department is always on hold.



These are poems written for my grandfathers and grandmothers.

Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr., the day he departed this life

Between the prophesies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.



Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch

Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...
though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat—
how easy it was to find if you knew where to seek it...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.

"Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin's or lard."

"Don't eat the berries. You see—the berry's no good.
And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time."

"I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst."

He seldom was hurried; I can see him still...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace.

Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.

He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.

Years later I found the proper name—"pokeweed"—while perusing a dictionary.

Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a ****.

I still can hear his laconic reply...
"Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard."

Keywords/Tags: Great Depression, greatness, courage, resolve, resourcefulness, hero, heroes, South, Deep South, southern, poke salad, poke salat, pokeweed, free verse



All Things Galore
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

Grandfather,
now in your gray presence
you are
somehow more near

and remind me that,
once, upon a star,

you taught me
wish
that ululate soft phrase,
that hopeful phrase!

and everywhere above, each hopeful star

gleamed down

and seemed to speak of times before
when you clasped my small glad hand
in your wise paw
and taught me heaven, omen, meteor . . .



Dawn
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmothers Lillian Lee and Christine Ena Hurt

Bring your peculiar strength
to the strange nightmarish fray:
wrap up your cherished ones
in the golden light of day.



Mother's Day Haiku
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmothers Lillian Lee and Christine Ena Hurt

Crushed grapes
surrender such sweetness:
a mother’s compassion.

My footprints
so faint in the snow?
Ah yes, you lifted me.

An emu feather ...
still falling?
So quickly you rushed to my rescue.

The eagle sees farther
from its greater height:
our mothers' wisdom.



The Rose
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmother, Lillian Lee, who used to grow the most beautiful roses

The rose is—
the ornament of the earth,
the glory of nature,
the archetype of the flowers,
the blush of the meadows,
a lightning flash of beauty.

This poem above is my translation of a Sappho epigram.



Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch

for my wife, Beth, my mother and my grandmothers

There never was a fonder smile
than mother’s smile, no softer touch
than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than “much.”

So more than “much,” much more than “all.”
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother’s there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back
than father’s back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother’s tender smile
will leap and follow after you!



The Greatest of These ...
by Michael R. Burch

*for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and the grandmother of my son Jeremy

The hands that held me tremble.
The arms that lifted
fall.
Angelic flesh, now parchment,
is held together with gauze.

But her undimmed eyes still embrace me;
there infinity can be found.
I can almost believe such infinite love
will still reach me, underground.



Sailing to My Grandfather
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

This distance between us
—this vast sea
of remembrance—
is no hindrance,
no enemy.

I see you out of the shining mists
of memory.
Events and chance
and circumstance
are sands on the shore of your legacy.

I find you now in fits and bursts
of breezes time has blown to me,
while waves, immense,
now skirt and glance
against the bow unceasingly.

I feel the sea's salt spray—light fists,
her mists and vapors mocking me.
From ignorance
to reverence,
your words were sextant stars to me.

Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts
back, back toward infinity.
From innocence
to senescence,
now you are mine increasingly.

Note: "Under the Sextant’s Stars" is a painting by Benini.



Attend Upon Them Still
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt

With gentleness and fine and tender will,
attend upon them still;
thou art the grass.

Nor let men’s feet here muddy as they pass
thy subtle undulations, nor depress
for long the comforts of thy lovingness,

nor let the fuse
of time wink out amid the violets.
They have their use—

to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths,
to shine sweet, transient glories at their feet.

Thou art the grass;
make them complete.



Be that Rock
by Michael R. Burch

for George Edwin Hurt Sr.

When I was a child
I never considered man’s impermanence,
for you were a mountain of adamant stone:
a man steadfast, immense,
and your words rang.

And when you were gone,
I still heard your voice, which never betrayed,
"Be strong and of a good courage,
neither be afraid ..."
as the angels sang.

And, O!, I believed
for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave
though the years slipped away
with so little to save
of that talk.

Now I'm a man—
a man ... and yet Grandpa ... I'm still the same child
who sat at your feet
and learned as you smiled.
Be that rock.

I wrote the poem above for my grandfather when I was around 18.



Joy in the Morning
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandparents George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Christine Ena Hurt

There will be joy in the morning
for now this long twilight is over
and their separation has ended.

For fourteen years, he had not seen her
whom he first befriended,
then courted and married.

Let there be joy, and no mourning,
for now in his arms she is carried
over a threshold vastly sweeter.

He never lost her; she only tarried
until he was able to meet her.

Keywords/Tags: George Edwin Hurt Christine Ena Spouse reunited heaven joy together forever



Come Spring
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Come spring we return, innocent and hopeful, to the ******,
beseeching Her to bestow
Her blessings upon us.

Pitiable sinners, we bow before Her,
nay, grovel,
as She looms above us, aglow
in Her Purity.

We know
all will change in an instant; therefore
in the morning we will call her,
an untouched maiden no more,
“*****.”

The so-called Religious Right prizes virginity in women and damns them for doing what men do. I have long been a fan of women like Tallulah Bankhead, Marilyn Monroe and Mae West, who decided what’s good for the gander is equally good for the goose.



HOMELESS POETRY

These are poem about the homeless and poems for the homeless.



Epitaph for a Homeless Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



Homeless Us
by Michael R. Burch

The coldest night I ever knew
the wind out of the arctic blew
long frigid blasts; and I was you.

We huddled close then: yes, we two.
For I had lost your house, to rue
such bitter weather, being you.

Our empty tin cup sang the Blues,
clanged—hollow, empty. Carols (few)
were sung to me, for being you.

For homeless us, all men eschew.
They beat us, roust us, jail us too.
It isn’t easy, being you.

Published by Street Smart, First Universalist Church of Denver, Mind Freedom Switzerland and on 20+ web pages supporting the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities



Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

for homeless mothers and their children

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...



For a Homeless Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?



Neglect
by Michael R. Burch

What good are tears?
Will they spare the dying their anguish?
What use, our concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?

What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?

Before this day is over,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, emaciate limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?

I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of theirs departing ...
mournful, and distant.

How pitiful our “effort,”
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.



PETRARCH

Sonnet XIV
by Petrarch
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lust, gluttony and idleness conspire
to banish every virtue from mankind,
replaced by evil in his treacherous mind,
thus robbing man of his Promethean fire,
till his nature, overcome by dark desire,
extinguishes the light pure heaven refined.
Thus the very light of heaven has lost its power
while man gropes through strange darkness, unable to find
relief for his troubled mind, always inclined
to lesser dreams than Helicon’s bright shower!
Who seeks the laurel? Who the myrtle? Bind
poor Philosophy in chains, to learn contrition
then join the servile crowd, so base conditioned?
Not so, true gentle soul! Keep your ambition!

Sonnet VI
by Petrarch
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I once beheld such high, celestial graces
as otherwise on earth remain unknown,
whose presences might earthly grief atone,
but from their blinding light we turn our faces.
I saw how tears had left disconsolate traces
within bright eyes no noonday sun outshone.
I heard soft lips, with ululating moans,
mouth words to jar great mountains from their traces.
Love, wisdom, honor, courage, tenderness, truth
made every verse they voiced more high, more dear,
than ever fell before on mortal ear.
Even heaven seemed astonished, not aloof,
as the budding leaves on every bough approved,
so sweetly swelled the radiant atmosphere!



The Inconstant Cosmologist
by Michael R. Burch

An incestuous physicist, Bright,
made whoopee much faster than light.
She orgasmed one day
in her relative way,
but came on the previous night!



Pale Ophelias
by Michael R. Burch

Ever in danger of a lethal tryst,
with a comical father crying, “Desist!”
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.

“Children, be careful!” our mothers insist,
and yet we plow forward, in search of bliss,
ever in danger of a lethal tryst.

“Remember Eve’s apple,” some inner voice hissed,
which of course we ignored, the prudish miss!
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.

Such a sweet temptation!, and who can resist
the enticements of such a delectable dish,
whatever the dangers of a lethal tryst?

“Stay away, Cupid!” With a balled-up fist,
we lecture the stars when things go amiss.
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.

Lovers are criminals & need to be frisked!
We’re up to the task, like lobsters in bisque.
Ever in danger of a lethal tryst,
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.



Asleep at the Wheel
by Michael R. Burch

Florida will not be woke.
DeSantis made it clear.
The world may well go up in smoke,
but Ron will snore, no fear.

For Florida will not be woke.
Conservatives will snooze
with blinders shutting out all light
and any factual news.



When I visited Byron's residence at Newstead Abbey, there were peacocks running around the grounds, which I thought appropriate.

Byron
was not a shy one,
as peacocks run.
—Michael R. Burch



That country ***** bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art’s
hiking her dress
to ****** you with her ankles' nakedness!
Sappho, fragment 57, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



My religion consists of your body's curves and crevasses.—attributed to Sappho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



I discovered the Goddess in your body's curves and crevasses.—attributed to Sappho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



How Could I Understand?
by Michael R. Burch

The intense heat and light of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb blasts left ghostly silhouettes of human beings imprinted in concrete, whose lives were erased in an instant.

How could I understand
that light
might
be painful?

That sight
might
be crossed?

How could I understand
the cost
of my ignorance,
or the sun’s
inflorescence?

Who was there to tell me
that I, too,
might be one of the
Lost?



EGBERT THE OCTOPUS

Egbert the Octopus can be viewed here, in all his high-IQ’d-ness and adorability:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V32yeA9yUuk

Eggbert the Octopus
is so **** cute
& smarter than u
(the point is moot)
’cause he doesn’t pollute
when he commutes,
only, perhaps,
when he (ahem) “poots”!
—michael r. burch

I have also seen the diminutive Einstein’s name rendered as Eggbert the Octopus.



Driedel!
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18

“Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing.” – Revelation 5:12

On Erble's fiery mountain
she lifts her eyes to greet
the avalanche of lava
as it cascades through the peaks.

Her eyes are fiery systems
burning with wonder,
all-seeing yet unseeing;
her voice is like thunder!

Soft as a thrummingbird she speaks;
she whispers to the dawn
of Erble's final awakening,
and the Void gives voice to song.

Driedel!  Driedel!  Driedel!
****** of the heights,
shed your gown of alasty
and come to meet Dark Night!

Her cheeks like alabaster,
her tentacles aflame,
she leaps to greet her Lover
and screams his godly name!

Her throat is black and violet,
her teeth are plated sjurl.
The fire licks her features
and laps her smoking curls.

A palatable offering!
The work is done; the deed
has been executed
exactly as decreed.

Driedel!  Driedel!  Driedel!
Go to meet your Lord,
and through your new alliance,
keep your people pure.

Driedel!



Daredevilry
by Michael R. Burch

Trees
full of possibilities
whisper of ancient mysteries—
mysteries of birth, of life and death.
Each leaf—illuminated, light as breath—
gives up clinging to the old verities,
embraces its frailties,
skydives …



Overshadowed
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The brilliance of stars goes unnoticed
since the moon overshadows them every night.



So Be It
by Rahat Indori
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

If we’re opposed, so be it; there’s more to life.
There’s more to the skies than mere smoke.
When a fire breaks out, many wounds abound;
it’s not just my home in flames.
Yes, it’s true that many enemies also abound,
but they don’t control life with their fists.
What comes out of my mouth, are my words alone;
they don’t speak for me, do they?
Today’s rulers will not be tomorrow’s;
We’re all tenants here, not owners.
Everyone's blood irrigates Earth’s soil;
India is no one’s paternal possession.



Speak
by Faiz Ahmad Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Speak, while your lips are still free.
Speak, while your tongue remains yours.
Speak, while you’re still standing upright.
Speak, while your spirit has force.

See how, in the bright-sparking forge,
cunning flames set dull ingots aglow
as the padlocks release their clenched grip
on the severed chains hissing below.

Speak, in this last brief hour,
before the bold tongue lies dead.
Speak, while the truth can be spoken.
Say what must yet be said.



The Fog and the Shadows
adapted from a novel by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“I began to realize the fog was similar to the shadows.”

I began to realize that, just as the exact shape of darkness is a shadow,
even so the exact shape of fog is disappearance
and the exact shape of a human being is also disappearance.
At this moment it seemed my body was vanishing into the human form’s final state.
After I arrived here,
it was as if the danger of getting lost
and the desire to lose myself
were merging strangely inside me.
While everything in that distant, gargantuan city where I spent my five college years felt strange to me; and even though the skyscrapers, highways, ditches and canals were built according to a single standard and shape, so that it wasn’t easy to differentiate them, still I never had the feeling of being lost. Everyone there felt like one person and they were all folded into each other. It was as if their faces, voices and figures had been gathered together like a shaman’s jumbled-up hair.
Even the men and women seemed identical.
You could only tell them apart by stripping off their clothes and examining them.
The men’s faces were beardless like women’s and their skin was very delicate and unadorned.
I was always surprised that they could tell each other apart.
Later I realized it wasn’t just me: many others were also confused.
For instance, when we went to watch the campus’s only TV in a corridor of a building where the seniors stayed when they came to improve their knowledge. Those elderly Uyghurs always argued about whether someone who had done something unusual in an earlier episode was the same person they were seeing now. They would argue from the beginning of the show to the end. Other people, who couldn’t stand such endless nonsense, would leave the TV to us and stalk off.
Then, when the classes began, we couldn’t tell the teachers apart.
Gradually we became able to tell the men from the women
and eventually we able to recognize individuals.
But other people remained identical for us.
The most surprising thing for me was that the natives couldn’t differentiate us either.
For instance, two police came looking for someone who had broken windows during a fight at a restaurant and had then run away.
They ordered us line up, then asked the restaurant owner to identify the culprit.
He couldn’t tell us apart even though he inspected us very carefully.
He said we all looked so much alike that it was impossible to tell us apart.
Sighing heavily, he left.



I was so drunk my lips got lost requesting a kiss.—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Road to Recovery
by Michael R. Burch

It’s time to get up and at ’em
and out of this rut that I’m sat in,
and shat in.



The childless woman,
how tenderly she caresses
homeless dolls ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Clinging
to the plum tree:
one blossom's worth of warmth
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



What would Mother Teresa do?
Do it too!
—Michael R. Burch



Kabir Das (1398-1518), also known as Sant Kabir Saheb, but often called simply Kabir, was an Indian mystic, saint and poet who wrote poems in Sadhukkadi, a vernacular dialect of the Hindi Belt of medieval North India. Sadhukkadi was a mix of Hindi languages (Hindustani, Haryanvi, Braj Bhasha, Awadhi, Marwari) along with Bhojpuri and Punjabi.

The world grows weary reading scripture’s tomes
but a leaf of love enlightens us.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Without looking into our hearts,
how can we find Paradise?
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How long will you live by eating someone else’s leftovers?
Find your own way, don’t live on regurgitated words!
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keep the slanderer near you, build him a hut near your house.
For, when you lack soap and water, he will scour you clean.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A true wife desires only her husband;
a starving lion will not eat grass.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Certainly, saints, the world’s insane:
If I tell the truth they attack me,
if I lie they believe me.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When you were born, you wept while the world rejoiced.
Live your life so that when you die, the world weeps while you rejoice.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The one who enlightens the world remains unseen,
just as we cannot perceive our own eyes.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No medicine rivals Love:
one drop transforms you whole being to pure gold.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Either grant me death or reveal yourself:
this separation has become unbearable.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

They called the doctor to investigate Kabir’s illness;
the doctor checks my pulse to diagnose my disease.
But no doctor can understand what ails me.
It cuts too deep.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I neither have faith in my heart, nor do I know anything about Love.
And what do I know of Love’s etiquettes?
How will I ever live with my Beloved?
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My Beloved calls me with such intense love,
but I am sinful and gone astray.
The Beloved is pure but the bride is soiled.
How dare she touch his feet?
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Kabir kept searching and searching until he was completely lost.
The drop dissolves in the ocean; now nothing can be discovered.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Whatever you need to do tomorrow, do today,
for time evaporates and vanishes like a mist.
Thus work undone remains undone forever.
—Kabir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Autumn Lament
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 14

Alas, the earth is green no more;
her colors fade and die,
and all her trampled marigolds
lament the graying sky.

And now the summer sheds her coat
of buttercups, and so is bared
to winter’s palest furies
who laugh aloud and do not care
as they await their hour.

Where are the showers of April?
Where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?

Where are the lovely maidens
who browned beneath the sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?

Alas, the moss grows brown and stiff
and tumbles from the trees
that shiver in an icy mist,
limbs shivering in the breeze.

And now the frost has come and cast
itself upon the grass
as the surly snow grows bold
and prepares at last
to pounce upon the land.

Where are the sheep and the cattle
that grazed beneath tall, stately trees?
And where are the fragile butterflies
that frolicked on the breeze?
And where are the rollicking robins
that once soared, so wild and free?
Oh, where can they all be?

Alas, the land has lost its warmth;
its rocky teeth chatter
and a thousand dying butterflies
soon’ll dodge the snowflakes as they splatter
flush against the flowers.

Where are those warm, happy hours?
Where are the snappy jays?
And where are the brilliant blossoms
that once set the meadows ablaze?

Where are the fruitful orchards?
Where, now, all the squirrels and the hares?
How has our summer wonderland
become so completely bare
in such a short time?

Alas, the earth is green no more;
the sun no longer shines;
and all the grapes ungathered
hang rotting on their vines.

And now the winter wind grows cold
and comes out of the North
to freeze the flowers as they stand
and bend toward the South.

And now the autumn becomes bald,
is shorn of all its life,
as the stiletto wind hones in
to slice the skin like a paring knife,
carving away all warmth.

Alas, the children laugh no more,
but shiver in their beds
or’ll walk to school through blinding snow
with caps to keep their heads
safe from the cruel cold.

Oh, where are the showers of April
and where are the flowers of May?
And where are the sprites of summer
who frolicked through fields ablaze?

Where are the lovely maidens
who browned beneath the sun?
And where are the leaves and the flowers
that died worn and haggard although they were young?

This is one of the earliest poems that I can remember writing. The original use of “’neath” is an indication of its antiquity. Unfortunately, I don’t remember when I wrote the first version, but I will guess around 1972 at age 14.




Keywords/Tags: homeless poetry, homeless poems, homelessness, street life, child, children, mom, mother, mothers, America, neglect, starving, dying, perishing, famine, illness, disease, tears, anguish, concern, prayers, inaction, death, charity, love, compassion, kindness, altruism

To me it feels like a worm
Wiggling its way
Through my bloodstream,
Making it icy and cold
And my heart turn
To frigid emotion.

It makes its way into my
Mind,
Slowing the thoughts
In some parts,
But giving the other parts,
The nervous parts,
The parts that hyperventilate
And have panic attacks,
Caffiene.

Breathing gets hard
Because
I'm underwater,
Or underground.
Buried alive,
Or sinking slowly.

I.
Can't.
Breathe.

The worm,
The worst part about the worm?
It feeds on my life.

I am not welcome
But to those
Who want to hide

Who want to be held
In my frigid
Whispy arms

Lost in the depths
Of a soft
Floating cloud

The thick
Moist cloak
That veils the earth

The eerie
Beautiful covering
Wavering and hovering

I am the mist

A surface gleams its slick ripples,
Solid liquid covering varied depths,
Frigid water held strong to the reflection of sky.
Held steady in gray by overcasts,
That hide the blemishes on this day.
Crack a warning, glints of sarcasm pierce the eye.

Somewhere below live antique creatures,
Demons of yesterday encapsulated.
Slow with slime and cold with sleep,
They dream of spring, dream of a thaw.
When sunshine blasts the sound of life,
Screams an alarm none dare not keep.

The slow shift strains patience,
Green bubbles from woody mottled arms.
Here and there come the arthropods,
Beginning their feast upon new bounty.
Finding themselves delicacies to another,
The flying predator of the mighty worms.

Singing sweet songs that bring dismay,
From April to June sometimes beyond.
Summer arrives in time to sear,
Tears from this repressed eyesight,
The cold winter from the dark water,
Which breed parasites unknowingly to pester.

Teasing sanity of forest dwelling fauna,
To fester in the skin as a tick or leech.
Drawing life out into the open plane,
Whittling down strength for another day
As we lay out the bitter harvest,
As we find another season of complaint.

Reed Bass
January 5, 2008

This reoccurring nightmare overrules me deep in sleep
Won’t wake me from my slumber,
Imprisons me in this keep


I try to run, I try to scream.
This is my certainty
Stuck in this bad dream


There, all about me are these stone cold walls
Over-protecting, so suspicious, untrusting …
They guard my soul.
Asking why are they so **** tall.


Restricting my heart I’m bound.
Powerless, I trail this authority
What hope is there now?


I pray in this frigid nightmare for the strength that I won’t break
Eager to be released from this lonely place
I’ll lie right here. My sanity they can’t take.

I remember the first time I discovered poetry,
bolts of electric affluenza coursing through soft fingertips
and into the skinny blue lines of fascination
meaning nothing at first, yet transforming into the spillage
of emotion, the invention of color,
the budding metamorphosis of the artist’s apprehension.


I remember telling everyone about the honey-tainted metaphors
that exhaled yellow pigment through our film noir madness
of ravaged years cementing over irises
and I remember the revelation, saucer eyes and trembling hands
after discovering the faultlessness of magic
that tore at heartstrings and furrowed brows,
the mumbled prayer of stitching entire blankets of words together
to keep our souls warm even as the frigid ice of Time
burned in desperation to freeze our heartbeats.


You are a poet
but to the world, you are wasted opportunity
you only know of words that slip through tied tongues like silk
and mending excuses to make up for heartbreak
You are a poet
but they never stop reminding you to keep your feet glued
To hollow ground, shaking
To find something that tastes of reality, the human flesh
sweat of long lost longing
You have to stop living in your head
In the spaces where you breathe life into promises
You are a poet
But that has never been enough.


The poet is used to this--
the knowledge of failure always shoved under the doormat
numbers that collect under crumpled paper,
the rotten look of misunderstanding as they wonder
where the science of living went missing
When did art decide to invade your insides,
Leaving no room to calculate meaning with mathematics?


Oh, but only the poets understand
That there is no formula to meaning
No theorem to calculate suffering,
Only words that get stuck and disintegrate into whispers
only all-consuming madness, write me a storm
That rages through afflictions
Write me an ending where
We are older, in the house we dreamed of, buried
Under blankets in the forgotten fog of Decembers
Write me an ending where my voice is steady
Instead of constantly wavering past the silence of goodbyes
hellos
heartaches


Love me
And I will love you
Lose me
And I will turn you into poetry
stretch your bones into feelings,
follow the lines in your palms into futures
Where we end up together
I will hold up your eyelids
so they will never feel heavy at the sight of destruction
I will shelter your heart to keep it beating
As we watch  as the words I could never say
flutter at your fingertips like moths
with broken wings


The world does not understand love


nor the poets that create it.

The empty air has a bitter tone
When it bites at my fingers
And yells profanities in an unrecognizable tongue.

It stings when it sings.

It has an aberrant gait
And a detached mien,
This lack-of being.

The tempest’s strides jounce its overly-wide shoulders;
Its prominent brow sends an antagonistic shadow
Cascading down its lip and jaw.

This active silence whispers age-old secrets
Its fingers tousling the amber leaves
Of my autumn’s long-dead trees.

The sound resonates,

And this taunting, all-knowing,
Omnipresent, nonexistent-but-still-there wind
Smiles at my naïveté.

Weary under the weight of the world
And the smog of self-importance.
Its eyes are clouded with grey rain,
Its teeth sharp with a bitter resentment;

“I’ve disliked you since the 1700s,” it breathes,
Throwing an airy, acrid gaze at humanity.
(“I’m sorry, but it is you who made me this way,
With your scornful industrialization.”)

Its eyes are frigid, piercing,
Wicked, yet reserved.
Cruel in their taunting assumptions,

Yet,

In those forget-me-not eyes

I found the sky.

ice-cold to the touch

a heart of stone, you’re bloodless

that is what you are

As concerning therefore the eating of those things that are offered in sacrifice unto idols, we know that an idol is nothing in the world, and that there is none other God but one. For though there be that are called gods, whether in heaven or in earth, (as there be gods many, and lords many,) But to us there is but one God, the Father, of whom are all things, and we in him; and one Lord Jesus Christ, by whom are all things, and we by him.

                                          I Corinthians 8  [KJV]



Roll a Yule log on the fire
and let the mystery-cult inspire.
What Persians, Gauls, and Romans knew
could teach us all a thing or two
about midwinter celebrations
warming frigid Northern nations.

The Phrygian cap he used to wear,
holly entwined with evergreens
still linger in our current year
recalling dim pre-Christian scenes.
Some strange vestigial rites remain:
The specter of the Lydian Bishop.
No bull—but reindeer pull his train
spreading love, inspiring worship
mixed with Nordic pageantry,
barbaric sensuality,
and glimmers of Medieval night;
His season beckons, burning bright.
In England's prim polyphony
voices call across the centuries
no remnant of tauroctony
resurrecting pagan memories.
Drunks and rebels hum the tunes -
they lift the cup, they cast the runes
participating unawares
in Eleusinian affairs
like office parties, trees in houses:
timeless ritual that rouses
peace and love, goodwill to men.
(is it so diabolic then?)
Ghosts of Roman soldiers laugh:
the sun-god wears a funny hat.
His bull was just a golden calf
that grew up sacrificially fat.

Who cares when Christ was born, or where—
the point is: God appeared on earth
to set the record straight, lay bare
unwelcome truth: the second birth.
A new religion superseded
what had been before. It needed
rituals to syncretize
(no drastic sin, in heaven's eyes).
Why rail against it? What is wrong
with festive fare and holy song?
You think you can set back the clock?
destroy the sun or banish God?
Why agitate the Shepherd's flock;
in vain you would restrain His rod...
Since Christ is all in all why bother
searching out old gods to smother?
Who denies He rules the ages
mocks your idols, stumps the sages?

And so you are without excuse
for finding reasons to be mad -
committing holy child-abuse
and making mother Mary sad.
Why fight the vibe, why square the wheel?
No point in Scrooging up the deal.
Just kiss beneath God's mistletoe
and let the blessed season flow.

A nameless helmsman
Whose fallible hands
Duty calls to act god like
Guiding a ship of life
Off the coast of Newfoundland
Through a night of blue white ice halls,
Until their combined Neptune fate
Entombs nearly all
To an eternal Atlantic floor
Of dark and frigid sea.

278

A shady friend—for Torrid days—
Is easier to find—
Than one of higher temperature
For Frigid—hour of Mind—

The Vane a little to the East—
Scares Muslin souls—away—
If Broadcloth Hearts are firmer—
Than those of Organdy—

Who is to blame? The Weaver?
Ah, the bewildering thread!
The Tapestries of Paradise
So notelessly—are made!

Muscles clench like knots on rope
prior to any wintry water droplets
dripping on my scarecrow frame.

There's a moment of cautious pause,
my mind waivers the rest of me--
uncomfortable with the atypical developments
insisting through western culture's handbook
bathing is meant to be relaxing.

I agree.

So after a thoughtful inhale
we dive in.
oo!
The siberian shock of the frigid liquid landing
on warm, pale-rose flesh
slowly erodes with an exhale...
My mercurial movements
and conscious unravelling of the constricting sinews  
offer a peppermint bliss-like salvation!
The chill fades,
water wanders down,
allowing my body to interact with the clear solution,
allowing myself to be and breathe with each cold moment
of wide-eyed cool-headed serenity.

believing,
it seems to me,
is the root of all knowing,
for what i have found
is worth far more than all i have lost.
what i once took for granted,
i now embrace each day,
like a breath of frigid air
on a morning laced with ice.
you magnetize me into
delight so deep and dark.
you are swirling, yes,
with all the light of things unknown.
all of you, which i have pulled
from dreaming
to become the reality beneath
the heavy lids that open to wonder,
enchantment; surely you know,
for your spell is natural
as the garden which flourishes
in your heart, planting sunlight
and bittersweet promises,
too much for a wanderer to behold.
yet he stops and stares,
as do i, for the day breaks
as surely as you will.
far more than this: soften
your edge to fit with mine.

winter solstice comes
bare trees, long hibernation
~ don’t risk bleeding lips

gardens lie fallow
field mice attempting entry
~ long dark frigid nights




Mark Toney © 2021

see I float around society like a plastic bag sometimes
unseen unless someone needs me

and there are so many truths I've seen
about women

these are the undeniable facts:

Beauty: women love beauty. they are consumed by it. it feeds them till they die, clutching stylish cases and well-worn tubes and knuckles bruised by constant forcing, or they sit in darkened obscure corners waiting for a no-name prince to charm them into believing lies, avoiding mirrors along the way.

Intelligence: it's okay to be smart but not so smart that a man feels five inches tall against the length of the word you just uttered with smooth unaffectedness, if you do that he falters, feels as though his life has been false, and then he tells you to stop reading your books. and you do it, because you fear you may lose him. women hide from the monsters of science and math, drown in the seas of history and literature and pretend all the while, giggles in every breath's pause, that they just don't know. because no one wants a woman who can recite Chaucer but can't even press a decent crease or bake a good cherry pie.

Hard Work Ethic: women were born to work. they work to maintain an illusion, they work to get a man, they work to keep him, they work to make him feel superior, they work in cramped cubicles and then in cramped apartments, making them uncramped, and then in cramped bedrooms under cramped sheets, trying to hide their leg cramp so as to not disturb his concentration.

Confidence: women hate other women who are confident. because those women have learned to disregard every lesson from charm school, and everyone else struggles to find the perfect hair flip. secretly, women love another woman with confidence. because it shows them they can be that reckless one day.

Dress: women want the short skirt in the window. but the directions on the tag are as follows:
DO NOT WEAR WHILE DRINKING. DO NOT WEAR IN COLD WEATHER. DO NOT WEAR WITHOUT PANTYHOSE. DO NOT WEAR IF OVER 130 POUNDS. DO NOT WEAR IN THE COMPANY OF DRUNK MEN. DO NOT WEAR TO SPORTING EVENTS. DO NOT WEAR IN THE PRESENCE OF OTHER WOMEN. DRY CLEAN ONLY. women leave the skirt on the hanger.

Strong Personality: women tell other women to be quiet and keep their heads low. that is all they know. when they were little girls they used to shout. then they became teenagers and were taught to whisper when they wanted something. whispers are saved for secrets, lies and things women want.

Competition: women want men. women want other women. women want people. women are told they want men. women fight for men, because they are taught men are the ultimate prize. women win men and are disappointed with the terms and conditions that apply. but it's too late. they've already won. women wonder what they were fighting for in the first place.

Affluent: women wish money didn't matter but when they're counting pennies for every man's dollar it's hard to ignore.

women are told by men their mothers their sisters their teachers their bosses their world

that they are too loud ****** ugly fat hairy ***** loose slutty uptight frigid emotional stoic competitive timid.

women tell other women these things and think their world will love them for it. women love other women, but begin to believe they don't.

biggest problem women have is with a world that thinks they can't handle their own ****.

She is high,
alive on
nouveau romance,
a libido kept quiet.

She is
ill-content,
flashbacks
withOut relief,
but a spark-plug second
her blissed-out blessed beneath.

She is
driving home
upset,
his rolling-over motion
this morning
was expected.

Frigid hands
clasping coffee cups
at Venice Beach.
She sighs.
Relief
is a sky of
lemons orange
and persimmon trees
and caffeine.

Story Book Land
The awful truth in this world at one point evil put upThis post open season on women and children nowCasey’s trail has provided a predators hand book onHow to avoid jail and punishmentStory Book Land
I would like to speak to the other side of the story in a hovel somewhere in southern Appalachia a young
Mother has left this falling down shack because of fever and delirium she left behind a toddler in this
Cold helpless situation but tonight when she drifts into trembling frigid sleep she feels herself being lifted
By powerful arms the body is huge but immediately she feels a great wave of warmth peace and love
Then she hears the laughter of children many of them as this divine personage sets her feet down she
Alights on this golden concourse then she sees what all the excitement is about this great figure glowing
In white linen is leading the children he walks or glides to her side just as she starts to take his hand she
Sees the nail print she knows who he is her mother sang of him and told her wonderful stories of how
One day they would go to be with him he held her hand firmly with a tenderness that was almost
Overwhelming they had gone a distance he released her hand and said now children go and play among
The wonders created for you and after awhile I will call you follow my vioce it will lead you to a hillside there spread out on the
Rich grasses my little lambs and I will tell you extraordinary wonderful stories so the children turned to
Look what was before them flowers so lush they bathed you in their fragrance their beauty filled you
With awe this was the only the beginning of splendor that knew no end they dashed through the flowers
It was hard to tell who laughed the hardest the flowers or the children then they came to the trees one
Of the older children asked Mr. Pine is it true that on ridges you can make the most beautiful tunes yes
Little one but here it is a little different what songs do you like wheels on the bus this little light of mine
She picked something all together different but he just rolled with it he did it with the finesse of a circus
Clown they all laughed he did many others to their delight then he said children you might like my
Neighbor Mr. Oak he has some delights you might delight in so they rushed to see what they would find
He seemed gruff and stern at first but then when he bowed down sweetly they noticed something funny
About the Spanish moss it was not that at all but a rainbow of flavors all cotton candy every one grabed all
They could get then just a short distance down the rode a sign said critter holler was it by Roberta’s
House ? well off they dashed they loved it immediately because all the animals were just babies young like
Them the mothers and fathers grazed up on the higher lush pastures I will go where he leads I will
Pasture where he feeds me, some of the children were old enough to remember that song a little child
From Florida was just timidly staring and from behind a fawn put his wet cold nose in her hand as it
hung down she squealed with delight a darker child born on the African savanna was drawn like a
magnet to a baby Zebra he played with its mane it playfully shook its head back and forth his smile even
made heaven brighter if that’s possible In life the boy was Maasai a great people his problem he dreamed of being a Maassai warrior
At to tender of an age the lion only knows one law that is **** to live the boys claw marks and bite marks
Vanished from his body as he left the fallen state of earth and traveled to the sacred holiness that is the
Total reality of heaven but as he looked on the baby Zebra he was all Maassai the wonders of his
Birthplace filled him to bursting the little Zebra was his touchstone all of heaven and a piece of earth
Coursed through his veins he will be forever defined on a grander scale so will Caylee for a brief time saw
Grass and palms now glory will endow her with privilege a crown immortal indestructible she wears it
Well it honors Gorge and Cindy her mother will be cleansed by terrible and secret fires best left to the
Purifier who never lets evil go unanswered.
someone saw a handsome man standing at a distance there
wasn’t a mouse with him but could it be Mr. Disney it was a great possibility all things are possible here
earths tears are gone forever and all you will ever know is the greatest peace and love the other side of
the story.