Unlikely Mike, for Michael Jackson

Unlikely Mike by Michael R. Burch I married someone else’s fantasy; she admired me despite my mutilations. I loved her for her heart’s sake, and for mine. I hid my face and changed its connotations. And in the dark I danced—slight, Chaplinesque— a metaphor myself. How could they know, the undiscerning ones, that in the glow of spotlights, sometimes love becomes burlesque? Disfigured to my soul, I could not lose or choose or name myself; I came to be another of life’s odd dichotomies, like Dickey’s Sheep Boy, Pan, or David Cruse: as pale, as enigmatic. White, or black? My color was a song, a changing track. Dream House by Michael R. Burch I have come to the house of my fondest dreams, but the shutters are boarded; the front door is locked; the mail box leans over; and where we once walked, the path is grown over with crabgrass and clover. I kick the trash can; it screams, topples over. The yard, weeded over, blooms white fluff, and green. The elm we once swung from leans over the stream. In the twilight I cling with both hands to the swing. Inside, perhaps, I hear the telephone ring or watch once again as the bleary-eyed mover takes down your picture. Dejected, I hover, asking over and over, “Why didn’t you love her?” Blue Cowboy by Michael R. Burch He slumps against the pommel, a lonely, heartsick boy — his horse his sole companion, his gun his only toy— and bitterly regretting he ever came so far, forsaking all home's comforts to sleep beneath the stars, he sighs. He thinks about the lover who awaits his kiss no more, till a tear anoints his lashes, lit by uncaring stars. He reaches to his aching breast, withdraws a golden lock, and kisses it in silence as empty as his thoughts while the wind sighs. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge between the earth and distant stars. Do not fall; the scorpions would leap to feast upon your heart. Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand for a drop of water warm and brown. Dream of streams like silver seams even as you gulp it down. Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs to hide the weakness in your soul. Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge and wish that you were going home as the stars sigh. I wrote “Blue Cowboy” around age 16. Preposterous Eros by Michael R. Burch “Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga Preposterous Eros shot me in the buttocks, with a Devilish grin, spent all my money in a rush then left my heart effete pink mush. Keywords/Tags: Eros, heart, blue, cowboy, horse, dream, house