The porch sags beneath me,
its gray boards sighing.
I light a cigarette,
send my breath to the wind-
maybe White‑Shell Woman
will carry it to the horizon.
He's fired again,
last kitchen inside forty miles
that could stand him,
bridge burned behind.

At lunch I’ll call,
say get out
or Daddy and Jimbo
will haul your whiskey bones
to lie with the rattlesnakes.

I swore to Mama and to Owl,
I will keep the night honest,
I wouldn’t spend my years
driving a man to dialysis,
watching Irish blood unravel
like wet lace.

But I remember the long Covid winter-
two bears in one den,
one soft, one starved-
when Spider Grandmother
wove us together
in the dim blue light
of tele-novellas and snow.
I almost believed
it was love again.

He pops up like a coyote
in the truck’s passenger door,
smelling of smoke and ruin.
Eighty‑five down the prairie road,
bug‑spattered glass,
sky bending blue,
fields gold as escape.

This isn’t working, I whisper.
We want different things.

Don’t, he says,
fingers crawling my thigh

No-
I shove.
Sweetness peels,
the sleeping volcano wakes.

Before his hand
can teach me the rest,
I already know:
there is no leaving.
The road is long,
lined with white crosses,
and Ghost Buffalo
has been leading me
down it all my life.

Detective stories have been making a splash on European screens for the past decade. Some attract top-notch directors, actors and script writers. They are far superior to anything that appears over here -- whether on TV or from Hollywood. Part of the impetus has come from the remarkable Italian series Montelbano, the name of a Sicilian commissario in Ragusa (Vigata)who was first featured in the skillfully crafted novellas of Andrea Camilleri.

Italians remain in the forefront of the genre as Montelbano was followed by similar high class productions set in Bologna, Ferrara, Turino, Milano, Palermo and Roma. A few are placed in evocative historical context. The French follow close behind with a rich variety of series ranging from a revived Maigret circa 2004(Bruno Cremer) and Frank Riva (Alain Delon) to the gritty Blood On The Docks (Le Havre) and the refined dramatizations of other Simenon tales. Others have jumped in: Austria, Germany (several) and all the Scandinavians. The former, Anatomy of Evil, offers us a dark yet riveting set of mysteries featuring a taciturn middle-aged police psychiatrist. Germany'sgem, Homicide Unit -- Istanbul, has a cast of talented Turkish Germans who speak German in a vividly portrayed contemporary Istanbul. Shows from the last mentioned region tend to be dreary and the characters uni-dimensional, so will receive short shrift in these comments.

Most striking to an American viewer are the strange mores and customs of the local protagonists compared to their counterparts over here. So are the physical traits as well as the social contexts. Here are a few immediately noteworthy examples. Tattoos and ****** hardware are strangely absent -- even among the bad guys. Green or orange hair is equally out of sight. The former, I guess, are disfiguring. The latter types are too crude for the sophisticated plots. European salons also seem unable to produce that commonplace style of artificial blond hair parted by a conspicuous streak of dark brown roots so favored by news anchors, talk show howlers and other female luminaries. Jeans, of course, are universal -- and usually filled in comely fashion. It's what people do in them (or out of them) that stands out.

First, almost no workout routines -- or animated talk about them. Nautilus? Nordic Track? Yoga pants? From roughly 50 programs, I can recall only one, in fact -- a rather humorous scene in an Istanbul health club that doubles as a drug depot. There is a bit of jogging, just a bit -- none in Italy. The Italians do do some swimming (Montalbano) and are pictured hauling cases of wine up steep cellar stairs with uncanny frequency. Kale appears nowhere on the menu; and vegan or gluten are words unspoken. Speaking of food, almost all of these characters actually sit down to eat lunch, albeit the main protagonist tends to lose an appetite when on the heels of a particularly elusive villain. Oblique references to cholesterol levels occur on but two occasions. Those omnipresent little containers of yoghurt are considered unworthy of camera time.

A few other features of contemporary American life are missing from the dialogue. I cannot recall the word "consultant' being uttered once. In the face of this amazing reality, one can only wonder how ****-kid 21 year old graduates from elite European universities manage to get that first critical foothold on the ladder of financial excess. Something else is lacking in the organizational culture of police departments, high-powered real estate operations, environmental NGOs or law firms: formal evaluations. In those retro environments, it all turns on long-standing personal ties, budgetary appropriations and actual accomplishment -- not graded memo writing skills. Moreover, the abrupt firing of professionals is a surprising rarity. No wonder Europe is lagging so far behind in the league table of billionaires produced annually and on-the-job suicides

Then, there is that staple of all American conversation -- real estate prices. They crop up very rarely -- and then only when retirement is the subject. Admittedly, that is a pretty boring subject for a tense crime drama -- however compelling it is for academics, investors, lawyers and doctors over here. Still, it fits a pattern.

None of the main characters devotes time to soliciting offers from other institutions -- be they universities, elite police units in a different city, insurance companies, banks, or architectural firms. They are peculiarly rooted where they are. In the U.S., professionals are constantly on the look-out for some prospective employer who will make them an attractive offer. That offer is then taken to their current institution along with the demand that it be matched or they'll be packing their bags. Most of the time, it makes little difference if that "offer" is from College Station, Texas or La Jolla, California. That doesn't occur in the programs that I've viewed. No one is driven to abandon colleagues, friends, a comfortable home and favorite restaurants for the hope of upward mobility. What a touching, if archaic way of viewing life.

The pedigree of actors help make all this credible. For example, the classiest female leads are a "Turk" (Idil Uner) who in real life studied voice in Berlin for 17 years and a transplanted Russo-Italian (Natasha Stephanenko) whose father was a nuclear physicist at a secret facility in the Urals. Each has a parallel non-acting career in the arts. It shows.

After viewing the first dozen or so mysteries of diverse nationality, an American viewer begins to feel an unease creeping up on him. Something is amiss; something awry; something missing. Where are those little bottles of natural water that are ubiquitous in the U.S? The ones with the ****** tip. Meetings of all sorts are held without their comforting presence. Receptionists -- glamorous or unglamorous alike -- make do without them. Heat tormented Sicilians seem immune to the temptation. Cyclists don't stick them in handlebar holders. Even stray teenagers and university students are lacking their company. Uneasiness gives way to a sensation of dread. For European civilization looks to be on the brink of extinction due to mass dehydration.

That's a pity. Any society where cityscapes are not cluttered with SUVs deserves to survive as a reserve of sanity on that score at least. It also allows for car chases through the crooked, cobbled streets of old towns unobstructed by herds of Yukons and Outbacks on the prowl for a double parking space. Bonus: Montelbano's unwashed Fiat has been missing a right front hubcap for 4 years (just like my car). To meet Hollywood standards for car chases he'd have to borrow Ingrid's red Maserati.

Social ******* reveals a number of even more bizarre phenomena. In conversation, above all. Volume is several decibels below what it is on American TV shows and in our society. It is not necessary to grab the remote to drop sound levels down into the 20s in order to avoid irreparable hearing damage. Nor is one afflicted by those piercing, high-pitched voices that can cut through 3 inches of solid steel. All manner of intelligible conversations are held in restaurants, cafes and other public places. Most incomprehensible are the moments of silence. Some last for up to a minute while the mind contemplates an intellectual puzzle or complex emotions. Such extreme behavior does crop up occasionally in shows or films over here -- but invariably followed by a diagnosis of concealed autism which provides the dramatic theme for the rest of the episode.

Tragedy is more common, and takes more subtle forms in these European dramatizations. Certainly, America has long since departed from the standard formula of happy endings. Over there, tragic endings are not only varied -- they include forms of tragedy that do not end in death or violence. The Sicilian series stands out in this respect.

As to violence, there is a fair amount as only could be expected in detective series. Not everyone can be killed decorously by slow arsenic poisoning. So there is some blood and gore. But there is no visual lingering on either the acts themselves or their grisly aftermaths. People bleed -- but without geysers of blood or minutes fixed on its portentous dripping. Violence is part of life -- not to be denied, not to be magnified as an object of occult fascination. The same with ****** abuse and *******.

Finally, it surprises an American to see how little the Europeans portrayed in these stories care about us. We tend to assume that the entire world is obsessed by the United States. True, our pop culture is everywhere. Relatives from 'over there' do make an occasional appearance -- especially in Italian shows. However, unlike their leaders who give the impression that they can't take an unscheduled leak without first checking with the White House or National Security Council in Washington, these characters manage quite nicely to handle their lives in their own way on their own terms.

Anyone who lives on the Continent or spends a lot of time there off the tourist circuit knows all this. The image presented by TV dramas may have the effect of exaggerating the differences with the U.S. That is not their intention, though. Moreover, isn't the purpose of art to force us to see things that otherwise may not be obvious?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

All the days are graying and I'm fraying like the sweater my grandfather gave me.

It still smells of cigars and old west, I'm ever quested and pressed with emotion.

I've become a faded flower fated to the pages of an old almanac in the back of the library.

Scents of worn novellas standing solitary on shelves and fragrant wisps of wisteria.

Alone to settle and mettle with dust and dialogues full of empty follies and triumphs.

you are a fool, Sophia. As I look up at these city lights, every neon sign seems to advertise you; they all remind me of what I'm missing out on. I pass strangers and hear them whispering your tender mercies: "so?" "fee" "ahhh..." I may be being quite forward so early on in our correspondences, but the theory that you are a scrap of paper that someone would allow to slip through their fingers is ridiculous to me. I say that because even after only meeting you once, by such a fortunate and faithful chance, I wanted to write screenplays, novellas, and entire manuscripts only based on how beautiful your name sounds when I say it. I will be absorbed in everything you admit me to learn about you. I only hope for your amusement when you discover my own scorched trails. I'm stupefied by your compliments, and I will catch every drop of your defrosting heart on my tongue. I felt so stupid but I beamed in pride seeing I could make you blush as pink as the roses on the bush behind you... such a delicate, feminine, sensitive color; white blossoming into red, purity blooming into passion. How I wish I could be the one to awaken a passion in you. I'm terribly sorry if I'm smothering, but you've an expert pen dipped in ink of naivety... in meeting you I crossed the border between respectable me and questionable sanity: the Sophia Line (your kiss would be turpentine, **** anything I used to be to become anything, everything you need from me). Ah... fee so... you've given me a lot to live up to. xo. Josephine.

layers of scars
over your heart
sedimentary footnotes
pages of insults
stacked one atop another
novellas of reminders
select a spot on the bookcase
pray to forget

“I can calculate the movement of stars, but not the madness of men.”   Sir Isaac Newton**

I can, but only of my own,
the orbits of the stars
within my envisioned mind,
this anti-expanding universe
this black hole of anti-matter
collapsing inward, the gravitational pull calculable
where I, madman creator,
am the sole witness mine self-destruction

I summon fate, luck, random numbers to the dock,
but all pleadingly state it wasn't me,
"I was somewhere else, had to be,
you cannot see my mathematical probability,
ergo i am definitionally
not capable of being guilty-
my orbit of madness
non transferable to you-mans"

who then can I blame?

for-seen poems every where,
upon on every face lay dime store words of bad novellas,
awake to work in dread,
return from it more deadened
and the piety pointy poetry pills
refusing to cooperate,
and the madness equation
has too many answers viable

what shall I title this poem?

I enjoy the word "sweet," it accurately describes the succulence of your lower lip
I wish to ****
and bite, and bruise.
"Hard" is your body, lean and tough
and assumedly rough
intense
passionate, all those lovely sensual adjectives that cheesy soft-erotica novellas
(that I "don't read")
use to describe a Man on a horse,
or in a fireman's coat, covered in soot,
saving kitties and pleasing cougars.
You are quite the male that I crave,
absolute perfection in human form that tempts and tortures my guilty thoughts and heaving breaths
so that I feel like one of those helpless heroines who swoon over a sensitive, wounded man.
But God do I want to inflict wounds on you, and lick them clean.

You have been a bad boy;
go to my room.

I'm not walking
like this
to look cool–
my pants
just keep falling down.

I saunter side-to-side,
head cocked
hand on crotch.
But no, I'm not cool.

I'm not trying to
look hip,
aloof or tough.
You see,
my pants are just too big.

The inseam is far
too long.
And although I wear
this belt, they seem
to slowly creep
further and
further
down

as if once they reach
my ankles
they will finally
escape
and wander the streets

morph
into some sort of Blue Jean
Blob Creature,
and slink
into a nearby gutter

only to emerge
20 blocks away,
apply for a job at
Panda Express
and for a studio
apartment

so that they
may have some
steady income
and a place
to work
on their novellas

With Witnessess as our God's,
Our love was meant to be forever.
But we spent to long, straining,
heart shrapnel, from lukewarm coffee.

Celestial fire due to write super novellas
in the spaces we shared,
instead blinded us,
with bright lights,and stardust.

I'm still burning the fire that started when we met.
I feed that fire, like I fought the depression, when you left.
But I tell you now, as much as it scared me.
*******. It was warming.

I never meant for us to be the spark
that died before the flint.
Two damp squibs
choking as the air left the room.

Leaving projectors to play monochrome fantasies
in the smokescreen of your absence,
as the acrid plastic nasal tumours,
grew inside of our silent movie.

The coughing had lost it's soul.
Revealing a struggle for air.
All the dance routines had died
life saving became life,

I am so sorry, I spent my time,
kissing gifthorses on the mouth,
while looking for Trojans
instead of just enjoying your presence.

They say if you love something, set it free,
but bluebirds sing in cages
better than any canary
when fed on tidbits and tall stories.

So forgive me my dramas
Let me soap up in my failures
my ritual clean begins at the home
we built from borrowed time

I hope heaven loves you as hard as have.

She has thin lips that rarely touch—painted Merlot

and sheltering teeth—those perfectly aligned, white-spined novellas.

And when she speaks, her satin tongue presses out sweet breath

that hangs on your head like a daisy halo.

I love my mother
like the prodigal son,
she introduced me
to activism,
and where I'm at now
I can't release it,
even as we went
to the Lincoln Homes and Estates
to set up computers,
to give people that look like me
a chance.

I remember the older
dudes would tell me
to keep my head up
even when I was down.

There is a heart
in
"da hood"
as the white people
around me put it.

There are fathers
pushing strollers.

There are mothers
making it
against all odds.

There are families
decreasing,
but
increasing.

There are computers
full with words
and poetry
and novellas.

There are black children
picking up books
more than guns.

Picking up basketballs
more than guns,
and why should they be
labeled
as less intelligent?

****,
they just want to get
out
and achieve
and it's wrong
that you say that's the wrong way.

I hate going to funerals
for faces
with cheekbones still heavy
with baby fat.

And don't love me
for telling you this,
don't love me
for being that "black guy
that talks about problems
in the ghetto,
da hood!"

Change it,
go there,
help people,
hand out books
to children.

There is nothing scarier
than ignorance.

"If you could erase a person and all of the memories that come with them from your mind, would you?"*
Memories of you flood into my head,
Into my lungs,
And I begin to drown.
I don't write about you often,
I don't like to remember you.
It makes me feel as if I made a mistake.
An awful, horrid mistake.
As if I stripped the beach of sand
As I washed away your name
On my lips
With alchol and watched
Your face evaporate with every
Puff of smoke.
Oh how I hate that I still love you.
Others touch me and
it only brings me back to you.
I've had better days
But the nights are the worst.
I've spent each night
Drenched
In tears and sweat
From the sweet words
You used to leave in my ears
Like flowers left on gravestones.
God I love you.
If I could erase my mind of you,
I would never
For you and I grew together
Entangled in each other.
We were one beautiful book
Bound in laughter and sleepy eyes.
But one day that book withered away,
Becoming two completely separate
Novellas.
I wish we never parted.
I'm so sorry.
I would never wish you away.
You asked of me, one thing.
To never leave you behind.
I promise you,
You will never be
Just another memory.

These are English translations of Voltaire, one of the world's most prolific, best and most influential writers. Voltaire, born François-Marie Arouet (1694-1778), was an amazingly prolific writer who produced works in nearly every literary genre, including poems, plays, novels and novellas, satires, parodies, essays, histories, Bible criticism, and even early science fiction!

Les Vous et Les Tu (“You, then and now”)
by Voltaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Phyllis, whatever became of those days
We spent riding in your carriage,
Lacking both lackeys and trappings,
Accompanied only by your graceful charms
And content with a humble supper
Which you (of course) transformed into ambrosia …
Days when you abandoned yourself in your folly
To the happily deceived lover
Who so earnestly pledged you his life?

Heaven had bequeathed you, then,
In lieu of prestige and riches,
The enchanting enticements of youth:
A tender heart, an adventurous mind,
An alabaster breast and exquisite eyes.
Well, with so many luring allurements,
Ah! what girl would have not been mischievous?
And so you were, graceful creature.
And thus (and may Love forgive me!)
You know I desired you all the more.

Ah, Madame! How your life,
So filled with honors today,
Differs from those lost enchantments!
This hulking guardian with the powdered hair
Who lies incessantly at your door,
Phyllis, is the very avatar of Time:
See how he dismisses the escorts
Of tender Love and Laughter;
Those orphans no longer dare show their faces
Beneath your magnificent paneled ceilings.
Alas! in happier days I saw them
Enter your home through a glassless window
To frolic in your hovel.

No, Madame, all these carpets
Spun at the Savonnerie
And so elegantly loomed by the Persians;
And all your golden jewelry;
And all this expensive porcelain
Germain engraved with his divine hand;
And all these cabinets in which Martin
Surpassed the art of China;
And all your white vases,
Such fragile Japanese wonders!;
And the twin chandeliers of diamonds
Dangling from your ears;
And your costly chokers and necklaces;
And all this spellbinding pomp;
Are not worth a single kiss
You blessed me with when you were young.

TRANSLATIONS OF VOLTAIRE EPIGRAMS AND QUOTES

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains
the incurable malady invariably remains.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love is a canvas created by nature
and completed by imagination.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If God did not create us, it was necessary for us to create him.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My only prayer to God was, “Lord, make my enemies ridiculous.” And he granted it.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God is a jester performing for an audience too frightened to laugh.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Doubt is an undesirable condition, but preferable to ludicrous certainty.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Faith is believing what reason cannot countenance.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

‎Life is a shipwreck, yet we must sing in the lifeboats.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Every man is a product of his age and few are able to rise above its misconceptions.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Judge a man by his doubts rather than his certainties.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The secret of being a bore is to reveal everything.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Common sense is uncommon.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains the malady is usually incurable.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Voltaire, Voltaire English Translations, Voltaire Poems, Voltaire Epigrams, Voltaire Quotations

30/30 "Day 6" 4/6/2017

Muse

Blankly observing from the doorway
Me on your mattress while you were gone
I wake from my 9 to 4 Rest after third shift
To your stare
Sunken into the doorframe
A limp contrapasto
This is the first time you have shown me
Honesty

You are not eager nor professional
Manipulative, nor Passionate.
Simply Home.
You are home

I've never seen anything more beautiful
set to the frequency of a good book
After years of us swapping stories
Shooting fireworks at comic book panels
Lighting each other on fire when we aren't
Quite sober of heart

When we speak in streetlight colors
or profanity
Artists after midnight
You were never comfortable

Tonight you shed all mask
Facade
No intention, depression, expression
You were done today with social interaction
I've written you into a thousand novellas
Without ever looking you in the eyes.
I saw you today, Muse.

Honesty draped limp in contraposto
Hanging limbo until I left silently manic
Smirking out the front door for you
So you could live vouyerless for awhile.
Nose in a good book
Heart stirring tornados in my chest again
Like I was blinded by future ambition.
You told me you found out
what you wanna do with your life.

you told me today,
you know how to stay alive.

I went back to the places once traveled through years ago
they smiled when they saw me
thats a good start

today i turn 36 years old here  
i really just want 36 more
made it past jesus at least
but my father didn’t carpent
but carpets he brought brought on his back
i didn’t do anything really

3rd person story glory glares like novellas
but take it as your own
you’ll blur out your empty spaces
and stick out in just the right way
i answer phones all day so as to not answer my own

i really like want 36 more
ill do better
i promise

I leave this work untitled
Like every book on the wall
Like the wall, I hold these works on me
No names, no faces
I look into the mirror
I see no face, no name, no title
Just a book, an unfinished piece of work
No work on this wall is complete
And thus, deserves no name
The untitled works, the poems and novellas
The epics, the short stories, the sagas and chronicles
All unfinished, all untitled

It’s hard to find a piece of writing
When the covers are all the same
All white, all blank, nameless
If I set fire to this room
It would be like nothing had been destroyed at all
They sit on their wall; waiting
I lay on my bed; waiting
Waiting
We are waiting

close-knit but tongue tied
these knots have formed around my limbs again
and all I seem to want is to cut ties
but I keep running in circles
the rope gets tighter now
there's nothing strong enough to cut
close enough to break from what brings me down.
There are days when I don't see myself too clearly-
I make a mockery of all this progress
and reversion encases my jawline
builds a fortress around my cheekbones
lets these tears I own fill an arc all the same.
Never sane in what I am saying
never too close for comfort
never still
always silenced.
See this mind of mine has torn in two
and I am seeing stars again
I looked too closely into the light
that became of me
and now I have trouble seeing anything.
Blind optimism has turned a blind eye to currently
to the reality I live which feels nothing short of a fiction novel
but these spells are not long enough for many chapters
So I fill this shell casing of who I am with novellas
and hope the print isn't too small
and the dialogue isn't too excessive.
Feeling apart of something bigger
has always been my call-to in this world
has always been the north star guiding me
to the place I want to be.
See I've never really felt the words "family"
warp around my skin and make a home inside of my psyche
but it's the only word thats ever meant anything to me.
Which is why these words turn to a warm gun
and I hold it close to my chest
inching to pull the trigger
in hopes more of me will scatter onto the floor
and into the world.
But I strive for consistency and stability
so the gun is just a way to protect me
these words will always be there to protect me.
When I grow old-
when the color fades from my hair
and you can no longer see the outline of my youth
etched inside these expressive tendencies
that is where you will find my happy
in the names of every offspring
and every person I've ever loved-
every good deed I have ever done
that is where you will find my happy.
I have lost myself inside the toxicity
and it clouds the mirror on most days
but sometimes the smoke clears
and I can see who I am again.
Repeating "I am here"
until I convince myself it's true.

Dear me-
I lost myself inside of you
and I will be coming to collect soon

Epigrams III



To be or not to be?
In the end Hamlet
opted for naught.
—Michael R. Burch



Love has the value
of gold, if it’s true;
if not, of rue.
—Michael R. Burch



Ars Brevis, Proofreading Longa
by Michael R. Burch

Poets may labor from sun to sun,
but their editor's work is never done.



Redefinitions

Faith: falling into the same old claptrap.—Michael R. Burch
Religion: the ties that blind.—Michael R. Burch
Baseball: lots of spittin’ mixed with some hittin’.—Michael R. Burch
Trickle down economics: an especially pungent *******.—Michael R. Burch
Poetry: the art of finding the right word at the right time.—Michael R. Burch



Bible Libel

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
—Michael R. Burch



The most dangerous words ever uttered by human lips are “thus saith the LORD.” — Michael R. Burch



The Least of These...

What you
do
to
the refugee
(the least of these)
you
do
unto
Me!
—Jesus Christ, translation/paraphrase by Michael R. Burch



The Church Gets the Burch Rod

How can the Bible be "infallible" when from Genesis to Revelation slavery is commanded and condoned, but never condemned? —Michael R. Burch

I have my doubts about your God and his "love":
If one screams below, what the hell is "Above"?
—Michael R. Burch

If God has the cattle on a thousand hills,
why does he need my tithes to pay his bills?
—Michael R. Burch

The best tonic for other people's bad ideas is to think for oneself.—Michael R. Burch

Hell hath no fury like a fundamentalist whose God condemned him for having "impure thoughts."—Michael R. Burch

Religion is the difficult process of choosing the least malevolent invisible friends.—Michael R. Burch

Religion is the ****** of the people.—Karl Marx
Religion is the dopiate of the sheeple.—Michael R. Burch

To fall an inch short of infinity is to fall infinitely short.—Michael R. Burch

Most Christians make God seem like the Devil. Atheists and agnostics at least give him the "benefit of the doubt."—Michael R. Burch

Hell has been hellishly overdone
since Jehovah and his prophets never mentioned it once.
—Michael R. Burch

(Bible scholars agree: the word "hell" has been removed from the Old Testaments of the more accurate modern Bible translations. And the few New Testament verses that mention "hell" are obvious mistranslations.)

An ideal that cannot be realized is, in the end, just wishful thinking.—Michael R. Burch

God and his "profits" could never agree
on any gospel acceptable to an intelligent flea.
—Michael R. Burch

since God created u so gullible
how did u conclude He’s so lovable?
—Michael R. Burch

If every witty thing that's said were true,
Oscar Wilde, the world would worship You!
—Michael R. Burch



Translations

Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!

Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, translation by Michael R. Burch

The imbecile constructs cages for everyone he knows,
while the sage (who has to duck his head whenever the moon glows)
keeps dispensing keys all night long
to the beautiful, rowdy, prison gang.
—Hafiz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An unbending tree
breaks easily.
—Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Little sparks ignite great flames.—Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains
the incurable malady invariably remains.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their ****** for exotic positions.
—Thomas Campion, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No wind is favorable to the man who lacks direction.
—Seneca the Younger, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hypocrisy may deceive the most perceptive adult, but the dullest child recognizes and is revolted by it, however ingeniously disguised.
—Leo Tolstoy translation by Michael R. Burch

Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel,
or a house when it's time to change residences,
even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.
—Seneca, speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, translation by Michael R. Burch

Improve yourself through others' writings, thus attaining more easily what they acquired through great difficulty.
—Socrates, translation by Michael R. Burch

Fools call wisdom foolishness.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch

One true friend is worth ten thousand kin.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch

Not to speak one’s mind is slavery.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch

I would rather die standing than kneel, a slave.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch

Fresh tears are wasted on old griefs.
―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch



Native American Proverb
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Before you judge
a man for his sins
be sure to trudge
many moons in his moccasins.



Native American Proverb
by Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota Sioux (circa 1840-1877)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A man must pursue his Vision
as the eagle explores
the sky's deepest blues.



Native American Proverb
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let us walk respectfully here
among earth's creatures, great and small,
remembering, our footsteps light,
that one wise God created all.



Shattered
by Vera Pavlova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.



Death
by Michael R. Burch

Death is the ultimate finality
and banality
of reality.



Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss
by Michael R. Burch

Domestic “bliss”?
Best to swing and miss!



Less Heroic Couplets: Then and Now
by Michael R. Burch

BEFORE: Thanks to Brexit, our lives will be plush! ...
AFTER: Crap, we’re going broke! What the hell is the rush?



Less Heroic Couplets: Dear Pleader
by Michael R. Burch

Is our Dear Pleader, as he claims, heroic?
I prefer my presidents a bit more stoic.



Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air

Their volume’s impressive, it’s true ...
but somehow it all seems “much ado.”



Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry I
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry is the heart’s caged rhythm,
the soul’s frantic tappings at the panes of mortality.



Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry II
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry is the trapped soul’s frantic tappings
at the panes of mortality.



Less Heroic Couplets: Seesaw
by Michael R. Burch

A poem is the mind teetering between fact and fiction,
momentarily elevated.



Less Heroic Couplets: Passions
by Michael R. Burch

Passions are the heart’s qualms,
the soul’s squalls, the brain’s storms.



Wayne Gretzky was pure skill poured into skates.—Michael R. Burch

Justice may be blind, but does she have to be deaf too?—Michael R. Burch

There is nothing at all supreme, nor anything remotely just, about Clarence Thomas.—Michael R. Burch



VOLTAIRE

These are English translations of Voltaire, one of the world's most prolific, best and most influential writers. Voltaire, born François-Marie Arouet (1694-1778), was an amazingly prolific writer who produced works in nearly every literary genre, including poems, plays, novels and novellas, satires, parodies, essays, histories, Bible criticism, and even early science fiction!

Les Vous et Les Tu (“You, then and now”)
by Voltaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Phyllis, whatever became of those days
We spent riding in your carriage,
Lacking both lackeys and trappings,
Accompanied only by your graceful charms
And content with a humble supper
Which you (of course) transformed into ambrosia …
Days when you abandoned yourself in your folly
To the happily deceived lover
Who so earnestly pledged you his life?

Heaven had bequeathed you, then,
In lieu of prestige and riches,
The enchanting enticements of youth:
A tender heart, an adventurous mind,
An alabaster breast and exquisite eyes.
Well, with so many luring allurements,
Ah! what girl would have not been mischievous?
And so you were, graceful creature.
And thus (and may Love forgive me!)
You know I desired you all the more.

Ah, Madame! How your life,
So filled with honors today,
Differs from those lost enchantments!
This hulking guardian with the powdered hair
Who lies incessantly at your door,
Phyllis, is the very avatar of Time:
See how he dismisses the escorts
Of tender Love and Laughter;
Those orphans no longer dare show their faces
Beneath your magnificent paneled ceilings.
Alas! in happier days I saw them
Enter your home through a glassless window
To frolic in your hovel.

No, Madame, all these carpets
Spun at the Savonnerie
And so elegantly loomed by the Persians;
And all your golden jewelry;
And all this expensive porcelain
Germain engraved with his divine hand;
And all these cabinets in which Martin
Surpassed the art of China;
And all your white vases,
Such fragile Japanese wonders!;
And the twin chandeliers of diamonds
Dangling from your ears;
And your costly chokers and necklaces;
And all this spellbinding pomp;
Are not worth a single kiss
You blessed me with when you were young.

TRANSLATIONS OF VOLTAIRE EPIGRAMS AND QUOTES

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains
the incurable malady invariably remains.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love is a canvas created by nature
and completed by imagination.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If God did not create us, it was necessary for us to create him.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My only prayer to God was, “Lord, make my enemies ridiculous.” And he granted it.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God is a jester performing for an audience too frightened to laugh.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Doubt is an undesirable condition, but preferable to ludicrous certainty.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Faith is believing what reason cannot countenance.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

‎Life is a shipwreck, yet we must sing in the lifeboats.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Every man is a product of his age and few are able to rise above its misconceptions.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Judge a man by his doubts rather than his certainties.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The secret of being a bore is to reveal everything.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Common sense is uncommon.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains the malady is usually incurable.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Keywords/Tags: epigram shakespeare love faith religion hell church bible infinity god, mrbepi, mrbepig, mrbepigram

Published as the collection "Epigrams III"