• a humdinger •

You might find it ironic
for me to describe Chronic,
a story about death and dying,
as ‘a slice of life’.
In fact, throughout,
the question of ‘why?’,
and ‘why me?’,
seems pervasive,
and unanswerable,
which it is, except, for me,
‘and why not?’,
‘and why not (me)?’,
keeps rolling through my head,
instead.
Is it just me, I wonder,
or do others see this life
as an equal opportunity
entity,
or journey,
or what have you,
and that moral judgements
as to good or bad outcomes,
or of success or happiness,
and whatnot, cannot
truly be assessed
until after the final curtain falls,
so you’ll never know it yourself,
truth be told, friend,
being dead and all?
So, it’s a question for family,
and society,
and friends,
and ‘former friends’,
and what have you,
to make the call.
And honestly, who cares
what other people think, anywhoo?
So, don’t complain;
choose to be happy,
or fulfilled, or engaged,
or grateful, or enthralled,
or stoic, or philosophical,
or selfless, or starry-eyed,
or evangelical, or ‘evolved’ –
just between we two,
it’s up to you –
whatever floats your boat.
It’s a one way ride,
and frequently fabulous.
Enjoy the view.
Oh, and on a final note,
the movie (with Tim Roth),
is a humdinger, too.
~ Tim Burchfield
6/3/16

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• a starting place •

So much unsaid,
like the over-stuffed box,
full of letters, un-sent,
under my bed,
and too, those ensconced
in the nested sub-folders
of my however many
Apple computers I’ve shelved,
over the years,
whose computer languages
are accessible to no one, now,
not even to myself.
Still, love has no time,
and is its own reason to exist,
if too, something?
What, too personal?
Perhaps, yes? Still, friend,
to smile, is almost, to laugh.
And that’s a starting place,
ever and always, for bliss.
~ Tim Burchfield
5/7/17

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• by the numbers •

I have always had difficulty doing sums in my head, it’s always been that way, for me. Because, by the time I, ‘carry the three’ I’ve forgot whatever numbers I had (sort of, but shakily) ‘had’, in my mind originally. So I’ve ‘borrowed’, ‘appropriated’, if you like, oh alright, stolen outright, with appreciative impunity, an idea which might just do the trick for me, and that is this: from here on in, when I think of a numeral (that’s ‘number’, to the rest of you ‘number-dolts’, like me) it will have an assigned color (when I ‘picture’ it), and just for fun, a ‘texture’ as well, and, even, sometimes, for memory’s sake, a fragrant (or otherwise) ‘smell’ as well.
So, for the sake of clarity, picture if you will, that from here on in, all ones are orange, with the smell and texture of a citrusy orange peel. Savory One, how we love you, now: how fragrant, how juicy, how delectable, how ‘singular’!
Twos are yellow, and fuzzy, and seemingly everywhere at once, like featherweight baby chicks. Charming yellow tweety twos, tweeting to beat the band, oh, dear! (Oh, and voracious, and insistent, and demanding, and rather smelly, in great numbers, too, if you wanna know. Sorry!)
Threes are chartreuse, and froggy, with big round eyes, and shiny wet froggy skins. ‘Ribbity’ threes, making their creeky sounds.. from ‘down yonder, just past the old willow tree (as all ‘our amphibious froggy friends are want to do), with their midnight thrumming serenade… “three!!… threee!! …threeee!!!”
Fours are more formal, and come in multiples, like polite policemen, sporting their evenness and conformity, in a fetching comfortable serge, like a well pressed uniform, in crisp blue colors, and cool combinations thereof. Of course, there are many blues. Which, did you ask? You choose.
Fives are like the desert, sandy as (heck), and brown, or beige and warm to the touch, and smell vaguely of horned toads, with their round bellies, and flat flinty backs, and horny-toad skin. And little beige eyes that stare undaunted (not knowing what to think), but fixedly, up at you.
Sixes are sexy, in slinky silk negligees, and red as a fire engine, with ‘come hither’ sensibilities, and voices like sensual susurrations in a private suite, for just the six of you. So far, the easiest to remember – go figure, “Hey Sixy, whadda ya say? Hey, you, too, integer baby. Looking good!”
Add one part white to that number, and you get a pink seven. Sensible seven. Yeppers. Seven dwarves with seven pink…noses. (*grins*) (Or whatever, suit yourself, after I’m done here, it’s over to you.)
Just so’s you know, sevens are rubbery, and smell like an eraser. (Sorry, silly sevens, somebody’s got to.)
Eights are plump, like round purple plums, in succulent curvy bunches, with taught shiny skins. Be careful with eights, now, and don’t gobble ’em up too quick, or you might just get the ‘purple eight step’, from what you just ate. Just ate.
(Ahem.)
Nines are the uptight Victorians of the bunch, buttoned up tight, in their conservative black dresses, up to their long scrawny necks – who peer down at you from their lofty moral perches, and have well groomed, black eyebrows, ‘plucked’, as it were, with which to superciliously lean over you, and think you not at all amusing. (Too bad for you, but who just tolerate me, because of my ability with tea. Am I lucky, or what!)
Oh, nine, we don’t deserve you, but we’re glad you’re here…no really. (*wink*)
Heh, Nines…can’t live with em, can’t count to ten without ’em…whaddaya gonna do…?
Which brings to mind decimals, and multiples of ten, the like of which, as you well know, couldn’t be made at all, without the trusty ‘civil servant’ of the numeral world – the unassuming ubiquitous zero. I like mine in gray (or ‘grey’, if you go that way), I don’t know about you. Very conservative, and unassuming, these. And zeros are amenable, and roll with the punches, if you please. Zeros don’t get easily bowled over. They are the ‘dependables’ of the number set, but don’t add much to the conversation, it must be said, except as a placeholder, and want for nothing, if you get me, but do know their import, and innovation, and universal applicability. Good old zero, always there when you need one, whispering little nothings, that make all the difference. You gotta love ’em!
So now, with zero’s friendly participation, let’s make a ten, shall we?!!
Are you as breathless as I am?!! (Golly.)
Did you picture ten in all of its orange, and gray, glory? Ones are what, again? That’s right, juicy juicy orange, and zesty delicious. Roll that cosmopolitan gray circle right up next to that one, and, voila! A ten, me boyo! Wow! The Bo Derek of numbers, a perfect ten. What a sensation! (I think my knees are shaking. Is it noticeable? Well, color me numeral enthused, I’m cool with that.) The big one-oh! It was love at first sight. Ten out of ten.
So, after that little introduction, imagine my ease with remembering numbers, from now on. And combinations of numbers are so vivid, to me, now, that, believe it or not, I can now smell them, too.
Which are my favorites?
Well, honestly, there are so very many, and how they entice and imbue me with captivating interest, and ‘realness’ – I can count the ways.
My joys are, dare I say it? Multiplied. Now, I’d hate to do a ‘spoiler’, so you do the math. (Now, I can just think about numbers, and get wet. Oh, I’m just exuberant, don’t get upset. Still. I’ll just say this: over fifty, and it gets pretty darn good. Oh, yes, and get this: spritely Seventy will curl your toes!)
Oh, and sixty-nine is a hoot! (I seem to recall.) Oh, yeah…!!
So. Now that you’ve been introduced, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your new friends, if you like, now, it’s up to you. Nothing to it.
(Consider all sorts of numerical combinations, a ménage a trois, if you will…or an hundred and one combinations, my little Dalmatians. You can count on me. For my part, I certainly will. )
Happy days! I’m a number devotee, from here on in, and then, sum. An ‘aficionado’, as it were, as they say in Spain.
But I still won’t do numerology.
(Color me credulous, if you like, but I ain’t that dumb! Nosirree.)
~ Tim Burchfield
3/27/17

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• fish tale •

Dropped by the Credit Union to pick up some cash for the girl before the weekend, and Heather, the staff ‘Super’, in front of God, the entire staff, and everybody waiting in line, thanked me for the little fish poem I left for her, in an envelope, the last time I dropped by to make a deposit, and all the ‘girls’, oh, okay, women, well they ooooohed and agreed with Heather (their ‘Boss-lady), that it almost made ’em cry, and was sweet, and funny, and just the sweetest thing! Heather, et all., had had this goldfish, you see, in a bowl, there, on the counter, a gold one, for as long as I could remember: it turns out that goldfish had been with Heather, et al, ‘since the beginning’, or something, something like, well I can’t recall, exactly, but for years and years, and years: decades, maybe, which had died, and they had got a replacement fish, a black one, with buggy eyes, but it hadn’t lasted long, and when I asked about it, and the other one, all the ladies behind the counter had got real quiet-like, and Heather had told me the tale of her little fish, and how she had loved it so, and, yes, they had got a replacement fish, right away, from the gold one, which must have been, like a hundred-ten (in fish years), but that it had been “too soon,” and she was done with fish, for a while, she guessed, because it just hurt too much, to see that empty bowl, on the counter, like that (which she had subsequently removed).
And Heather, I surmise, had been really touched by my little fish poem, which I had left her, and it went very much something like this:
• can’t love a fish •

What’s ‘a matter, love,
Can’t love a fish?
That you can’t love a fish,
Is obvious.

I worry for my dear Silver Dollar,
Mister Silver Dollar, to you, Jim.
I worry, that if anything should,
‘Happen’, to me, (God forbid),
That it’d be,
‘The Big Flush’, for him.

Don’t you dare!
Just…don’t!
Anyway, I’m not worried:
You haven’t got the nerve,
To flush my Beta, too,
That’s Mister Beta Fish, Jim,
To you.

Anywhoo, that was my day, yesterday.
The power of words! I love ’em, and give more love, and get more love back from these, than from ‘most anything.
Carry on friends. Have a nice swim, on me.
~ Tim Burchfield
8/5/16

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• a dyspeptic ‘luv-pome’ (that doesn’t scan) •

• a dyspeptic ‘luv-pome’
(that doesn’t scan) •
“Thinking that your Love, or lover,
Is all ‘goodness’ (and ‘light’?):
Surely, that’s Love, isn’t it?
Shouldn’t we defend it?

For my part, despite the Law,
Of ‘unforeseen consequences’,
I can’t help it.
I think you’re swell.

No, not a ‘magical creature’,
Unless farting counts, as sublime.
I’ve seen (and ‘smelt’) too much, for that.

But, as humans go, pretty great…
A heart as big as Wisconsin,
A soul to beat Sousa’s band!
…Just an ‘old fart’s’ opinion…”
~ Tim Burchfield
9/25/12

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