Enough

Enough! by Michael R. Burch It’s not that I don’t want to die; I shall be glad to go. Enough of diabetes pie, and eating sickly crow! Enough of win and place and show. Enough of endless woe! Enough of suffering and vice! I’ve said it once; I’ll say it twice: I shall be glad to go. But why the hell should I be nice when no one asked for my advice? So grumpily I’ll go ... although (most probably) below. ### Practice Makes Perfect by Michael R. Burch I have a talent for sleep; it’s one of my favorite things. Thus when I sleep, I sleep deep ... at least till the stupid clock rings. I frown as I squelch its damn beep, then fling it aside to resume my practice for when I’ll sleep deep in a silent and undisturbed tomb. Originally published by Light Quarterly ### The Poet by Michael R. Burch He walks to the sink, takes out his teeth, rubs his gums. He tries not to think. In the mirror, on the mantle, Time—the silver measure— does not stare or blink, but in a wrinkle flutters, in a hand upon the brink of a second, hovers. Through a mousehole, something scuttles on restless incessant feet. There is no link between life and death or from a fading past to a more tenuous present that a word uncovers in the great wink. The white foam lathers at his thin pink stretched neck like a tightening noose. He tries not to think. ### In His Kingdom of Corpses by Michael R. Burch In His kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to speak in many enraged discourses, high, high from some mountain peak where He’s lectured man on compassion while the sparrows around Him fell, and babes, for His meager ration of rain, died and went to hell, unbaptized, for that’s His fashion. In His kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to vent in many obscure discourses on the need for man to repent, to admit that he’s a sinner; give up sex, and riches, and fame; be disciplined at his dinner though always he dies the same, whether fatter or thinner. In his kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to speak in many absurd discourses of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!, while demanding praise and worship, and the bending of every knee. And though He sounds like the Devil, all religious men now agree He loves them indubitably. ### Excerpts from "A Page from the Deportation Diary" by Wladyslaw Szlengel loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I saw Janusz Korczak walking today, leading the children, at the head of the line. They were dressed in their best clothes—immaculate, if gray. Some say the weather wasn’t dismal, but fine. They were in their best jumpers and laughing (not loud), but if they’d been soiled, tell me—who could complain? They walked like calm heroes through the haunted crowd, five by five, in a whipping rain. The pallid, the trembling, watched high overhead, through barely cracked windows—pale, transfixed with dread. And now and then, from the high, tolling bell a strange moan escaped, like a sea gull’s torn cry. Their “superiors” looked on, their eyes hard as stone. So let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. Footfall . . . then silence . . . the cadence of feet . . . O, who can console them, their last mile so drear? The church bells peal on, over shocked Leszno Street. Will Jesus Christ save them? The high bells career. No, God will not save them. Nor you, friend, nor I. But let us not flinch, as they march on, to die. No one will offer the price of their freedom. No one will proffer a single word. His eyes hard as gavels, the silent policeman agrees with the priest and his terrible Lord: “Give them the Sword!” At the town square there is no intervention. No one tugs Schmerling’s sleeve. No one cries “Rescue the children!” The air, thick with tension, reeks with the odor of vodka, and lies. How calmly he walks, with a child in each arm: Gut Doktor Korczak, please keep them from harm! A fool rushes up with a reprieve in hand: “Look Janusz Korczak—please look, you’ve been spared!” No use for that. One resolute man, uncomprehending that no one else cared enough to defend them, his choice is to end with them. ### Archbishop Michael Seneco has published “Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address” on his personal Facebook page and around twenty web pages altogether … Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address by Michael R. Burch We saw their pictures: tortured out of our imaginations like golems. We could not believe in their frail extremities or their gaunt faces, pallid as our disbelief. They are not with us now ... We have: huddled them into the backroomsofconscience, consigned them to the ovensofsilence, buried them in the mass graves of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol. We have so little left of them now to remind us ... Originally published in the Holocaust anthology Blood to Remember, then by Poetry Super Highway, Gostinaya (Russia), Ulita (Russia), Promosaik (Germany), Lone Stars, GloMag (India) and by Archbishop Michael Seneco on his Facebook page and personal website ### jesus hates me, this i know by Michael R. Burch jesus hates me, this I know, for Church libel tells me so: "little ones to him belong" but if they use their dongs, so long! yes, jesus hates me! yes, jesus baits me! yes, he berates me! Church libel tells me so! jesus fleeces us, i know, for Religion scams us so: little ones are brainwashed to believe god saves the Chosen Few! yes, jesus fleeces! yes, he deceases the bunny and the rhesus because he's mad at you! jesus hates me—christ who died so i might be crucified: for if i use my nuts or brain, that will drive the "lord" insane! yes, jesus hates me! yes, jesus baits me! yes, he berates me! Church libel tells me so! jesus hates me, this I know, for Church libel tells me so: first fools tell me "look above," that christ's the lamb and god's the dove, but then they sentence me to Hell for using my big brain too well! yes, jesus hates me! yes, jesus baits me! yes, he berates me! Church libel tells me so!