• hair spray •

“They say, ‘Don’t use hair spray,
it’s bad for the ozone.’
So I’m sitting in this
concealed (sic) apartment,
this concealed (sic) unit…
It’s sealed, it’s beautiful.
I don’t think anything gets out.
And I’m not supposed to be
using hair spray?”
Is it true, can it be?
That this,
coiffed kumquat,
this preening peacock,
this ham-handed,
hairdooed harlequin,
has, somehow,
been put in charge,
of the
… Presidency? Please.
Somebody ‘wake me.
~ Tim Burchfield
5/28/17

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• the role of a friend •

You are no friend, friend.
You only pretend to be a friend,
always with the passive aggression,
always with the snide retort.
Let me tell you about friends, friend.
Friends don’t hurt for fun,
or rip each other’s guts out for sport.
Friends don’t laugh at your pain,
enjoy your embarrassment,
exult in undermining your satisfaction,
poo-poo your gains,
remind you of your past failures,
and follies,
winnow out your weaknesses,
and worries,
all the more, to underscore.
A friend won’t hobble your confidence,
with the teasing jibe,
the unwarranted witticism,
the stinging barb,
the bad report.
That’s not the role of a friend, friend.
That’s what family is for.
~ Tim Burchfield
5/22/17

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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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• the bright side •

‘You know what’s fun, a relief,
and a delectable dearth of confusion?
Saying to yourself,
“I’m feeling wonderfully positive, today, that, in the end,
everything is gonna turn out okay!”
And knowing, without a shadow of a doubt,
unequivocally, irrevocably,
that it’s a complete and utter delusion.
~ Tim Burchfield
2/6/17

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• bird •

Just around by the azalea,
down past the crusty old honeysuckle,
a mourning dove is ensconced, quietly, looking,
on the ferrous covering
of the backyard fire pit:
downy lazing fluffery upon an iron grid;
crissed talons lanking
over the banking,
rusting placement,
her humble battlement;
sharp eyes gleam quietly, softly,
relaxed, and yet, quirkily,
looking for the cat.
~ Tim Burchfield
6/16/14

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