The cork pops and the wine of words bubbles forth

throw yourself through the paper, the notebook, the icon:
load the mortar in the fountain pen’s seeping tip and prick the paper
for the quill knife runs along the skin until
the ink oxidizes the blood and the crisp pulp fibers cleanse the tissue
September 20, 2004

The slashing, slashing

I refuse to be locked up by these steely bars
that steal dreams of any joy,
it’s dim down here grasping for shadows in the dark,
these walls are nice sometimes–they limit,
provide warmth for my doubt to fester,
for nothing satisfies, can I smile!? laugh?
hurt–feeling real only when I cry,
am I supposed to chuckle?

but I heard water the other day,
distant, but a roaring deluge,
I don’t know how to swim!
as the water rushes in,
deep in this dark cistern

to the thigh–to the nose,
I can’t touch, my neck extends,
forced to turn to float–
splashing–slashing the water
to grasp the slick brick
where the missing mortar fell,
so long ago–

rising, rising,
I’m slashing, slashing,
as the well fills,
I spill out upon the muddy ground,
the clouds clear,
a shaft of light,
blinds me.
Will I burn?