Well Bottom Blues

“this is the cold doing” — Charles Olson, “in cold hell, in thicket

I do not know if I want another pill or a drill to trepan this malevolence that hangs like a dark shroud or a straight razor to slice life out of time. 

This is not a threat or letter in an unsteady hand. It is poetry as the governor releasing steam before the boiler explodes. It is an outlet through which to escape, crawling on hands and knees and keys, the venting of the magmatic chthonic underworld of ghosts pleading to return to life, to be remembered.

Like Goethe atrocity comes easily to mind but I have so much more to say. These are only words but words of power, words of light, the fire that turns the driving wheel.