Pointed Art

Pointed Art Michael R. Burch The point of art is that there is no point. A grinning, quick-dissolving cat from Cheshire must have told you that. The point of art is this— the hiss of Cupid’s bright bolt, should it miss, is bliss compared to Truth’s neurotic kiss. Post-Modern Muse Michael R. Burch The anachronism in your poetry is that it lacks a future history. The line that rings, the forward-sounding bell, tolls death for you, for drowning victims tell of insignificance, of eerie shoals, of voices underwater. Lichen grows to mute the lips of those men paid no heed, and though you cling by fingertips, and bleed, there is no lifeline now, for what has slipped lies far beyond your grasp. Iron fittings, stripped, have left the hull unsound, bright cargo lost. The argosy of all your toil is rust. The anchor that you flung did not take hold in any harbor where repair is sold. Practice 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. Premonition Michael R. Burch Now the evening has come to a close and the party is over; we stand in the doorway and watch as they go— each stranger, each acquaintance, each unembraceable lover. They walk to their cars and they laugh as they go, though we know their bright laughter’s the wine; then they pause at the road where the dark asphalt flows endlessly on toward Zion and they kiss one another as though they were friends and they promise to meet again soon but the rivers of Jordan roll on without end and the mockingbird calls to the moon and the katydids climb up the cropped hanging vines and the crickets chirp on out of tune and their shadows, defined by the cryptic starlight, seem spirits torn loose from their tombs. And I know their brief lives are just eddies in time, that their words are unreadable runes unlikely to stand in this waterlogged land when their corpses lie ravaged and ruined. You take my clenched fist and you give it a kiss as though it’s something to be loved, and the tears fill your eyes, outshining the night lit by all the stars ringed above and you whisper, "It's time that we went back inside; if you'd like, we can sit and just talk for a while." And the hope in your eyes burns too deep, so I lie and I say, "Yes, I would," to your small, troubled smile.