I've been going through
a long dry spell, an arid
wasteland of the mind.
Writer's block is hell.
It's an empty nest,
a dead baby bird in
the wet grass--ant eaten eyes.
It smells like plastic flowers on
a tombstone.
I'm lost and starving in
the Whiteness.
Why can't I write?
Have I drank my mind
into mush?
The poems don't come like
they used to; the click is gone.
Sometimes, there were
four or five a night.
They swam from the
rivers of my soul.
They were my food and my light,
and my wings.
A good poem is like
smacking the ball out of
the park, or like coming together after
hours of foreplay.
Writer's block is a
limp ****, a miscarriage, an empty gun.
It's like having a stomach ache,
and not being able to *****.

Everywhere I go, I am
surrounded by convicts, and a
maze of walls.
My mind and spirit are
not in prison though.
They fly over the razor wire like
the falcon I saw through the
bars on the window.
It pierced the clouds like a bullet.
I will make the next
poem a feast.
Blood and feathers will
fall from my chin.
Ambrosia will course through
my veins, and I will
sing and soar from
the depths of my cage.

Escape
a roundel by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
   Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
   I never plan to be in his prison lean.

Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
   Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
   I never plan to be in his prison lean;
   Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

**

Original text:

Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.

He may answere, and seye this or that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
    Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
    I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.

Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For ever-mo; [ther] is non other mene.
    Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
    I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
    Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.
              Explicit.

Three years feels like a long time, until it’s over.
Panic... Panic.. Panic. I call my mother.
Honey, he got out three days ago.
What do you mean?
He’s out.
Panic.
Pa...
My pills.
I take one, two.
I fall asleep, the next day starts.
I wake up and pretend nothing is different.
Three years was a long time, and now it’s over.

Am I really home
What is home
What isn't
Familiarity estranged
Causes and excuses
Broken lies
Forgotten promises
We all never made
Who are they
Everyone just gawking
At everything and nothing
At where I stood still
Where is myself
Left her locked up
Right she isnt
Who is the writer
Behind this
Sordid
Distorted
Broken
Poem or prose
Who am I
What am I
Is it me or is it really
You
I am here but not
The existing that's extinct
Appearing while I disappear
Depressed but not
Living like the dead

Deep sleep, my body's rigid, unwavering,
peering unto the abyss, staring back
Undeterred, resolution unmatched,
I will escape the prison of my mind

Oh, you trapped my soul
Locked it in the jailhouse
I came here a man out of time
Today a parasite
Clinging onto the walls
Wrapped around the bars
Stone walls are my friend
Prisoners are my family
Orange jumpsuits for a uniform
Carving the lines into the granite
What time is my parol?
Tastebuds conform to the slop
No one believes my cries
This verdict isn’t mine
I never did the crime
I must have been framed like a picture
Tricked by the trickster
My lawyer was in on the plot
Helped no one but himself
Oh, you trapped my soul
When will the day come
Where I leave behind these walls?
Somedays I think
This is where I belong.