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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Nucleotidings by Michael R. Burch “We will walk taller!” said Gupta, sorta abrupta, hand-in-hand with his mom, eyeing the A-bomb. “Who needs a mahatma in the aftermath of NAFTA? Now, that was a disaster,” cried glib Punjab. “After Y2k, time will spin out of control anyway,” flamed Vijay. “My family is relatively heavy, too big even for a pig-barn Chevy; we need more space,” spat What’s His Face. “What does it matter, dirge or mantra,” sighed Serge. “The world will wobble in Hubble’s lens till the tempest ends,” wailed Mercedes. “The world is going to hell in a bucket. So f-ck it and get outta my face! We own this place! Me and my friends got more guns than ISIS, so what’s the crisis?” cried Bubba Billy Joe Bob Puckett. The Octopi Jars by Michael R. Burch Long-vacant eyes now lodged in clear glass, a-swim with pale arms as delicate as angels'... you are beyond all hope of salvage now... and yet I would pause, no fear!, to once touch your arcane beaks... I, more alien than you to this imprismed world, notice, most of all, the scratches on the inside surfaces of your hermetic cells ... and I remember documentaries of albino Houdinis slipping like wraiths over the walls of shipboard aquariums, slipping down decks' brine-lubricated planks, spilling jubilantly into the dark sea, parachuting through clouds of pallid ammonia... and I know now in life you were unlike me: your imprisonment was never voluntary. Consequence by Michael R. Burch They are fresh-faced, not innocent, but perhaps not yet jaded, oblivious to time and death, of each counted breath in the pendulum’s sway falling unheeded. They are bright, undissuaded by foreign tongues, by sepulchers empty and waiting, by sarcophagi of ancient kings, by proclamations, by rituals of scalpels and rings. They are sworn, they are fated to misadventure and grief; but they revel in life till the sun falls, receding into silent halls to torrents of inconsequential tears . . . . . . to brief tragedies of tears when they consider this: No one else sees. But I know. We all know. We all know the consequence of being so young. Cycles by Michael R. Burch I see his eyes caress my daughter’s breasts through her thin cotton dress, and how an indiscreet strap of her white bra holds his bald fingers in fumbling mammalian awe . . . And I remember long cycles into the bruised dusk of a distant park, hot blushes, wild, disembodied rushes of blood, portentous intrusions of lips, tongues and fingers . . . and now in him the memory of me lingers like something thought rancid, proved rotten. I see Another again—hard, staring, and silent— though long-ago forgotten . . . And I remember conjectures of panty lines, brief flashes of white down bleacher stairs, coarse patches of hair glimpsed in bathroom mirrors, all the odd, questioning stares . . . Yes, I remember it all now, and I shoo them away, willing them not to play too long or too hard in the back yard— with a long, ineffectual stare that years from now, he may suddenly remember. Confession by Michael R. Burch What shall I say to you, to confess, words? Words that can never express anything close to what I feel? For words that seem tangible, real, when I think them become vaguely surreal when I put ink to them. And words that I thought that I knew, like "love" and "devotion" never ring true. While "passion" sounds strangely like the latest fashion or a perfume. Incommunicado by Michael R. Burch All I need to know of life I learned in the slap of a moment, as my outward eye turned toward a gauntlet of overhanging lights which coldly burned, hissing— "There is no way back!" As the ironic bright blood trickled down my face, I watched strange albino creatures twisting my flesh into tight knots of separation while tediously insisting— “He's doing just fine!" An Ecstasy of Fumbling by Michael R. Burch The poets believe everything resolves to metaphor— a distillation, a vapor beyond filtration, though perhaps not quite as volatile as before. The poets conceive of death in the trenches as the price of art, not war, fumbling with their masque-like dissertations to describe the Hollywood-like gore as something beyond belief, abstracting concrete bunkers to Achaemenid bas-relief. Litany by Michael R. Burch Will you take me with all my blemishes? I will take you with all your blemishes, and show you mine. We’ll suck wine out of cardboard boxes till our teeth and lips shine red like greedily gorging foxes’. We’ll swill our fill, then have sex for hours till our neglected guts at last rebel. At two in the morning, we’ll eat cold Krystals out of greasy cardboard boxes, and we will be in love. And that’s it? That’s it. And can I go out with my friends and drink until dawn? You can go out with your friends and drink until dawn, come home lipstick-collared, pass out by the pool, or stay at the bar till the new moon sets, because we will be in love, and in love there is no room for remorse or regret. There is no right, no wrong, and no mistrust, only limb-numbing sex, hot-pistoning lust. And that’s all? That’s all. That’s great! But wait . . . Wait? Why? What’s wrong? I want to have your children. Children? Well, perhaps just one. And what will happen when we have children? The most incredible things will happen—you’ll change, stop acting so strangely, start paying more attention to me, start paying your bills on time, grow up and get rid of your horrible friends, and never come home at a-quarter-to-three drunk from a night of swilling, smelling like a lovesick skunk, stop acting so lewdly, start working incessantly so that we can afford a new house which I will decorate lavishly and then grow tired of in a year or two or three, start growing a paunch so that no other woman would ever have you, stop acting so boorishly, start growing a beard because you’re too tired to shave, or too afraid, thinking you might slit your worthless wrinkled throat!
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