a cold spot

in a

bottomless

ocean--

can be felt

more often

than not.

there's always another version to put

out--deny identity among the crowd

one generates.

--are you who you say you are?

is the constant question circulated by the

crowd--one to another, as a version of the

same one.

as one would say: peace be with you, in

church--to the ones nearest.

except this is a multiplicitous self-interegation--

which refuses identication, therefore peace.

melancholia loses its voice after

the unbroken rasp of its whispers--

are stripped naked by the oppressive

vapors it possessed to temper.

lordly & nonemergent--walked thru

the walls of its mansion, into rooms

that bear the sound of drizzle.

hallways of bounding sunlight, stunted

by dense clouds.

an inexhaustibly long queue of

devils, decked out with their spin on

evil.

mugging their motherless faces--

all holding a  bouquet of black velvet

flowers.

some noshing on them, some thwapping

the devil in front of them over the head.

filing one by one into a small yinmn blue

room.

to take headshots for sacred auditions.

a table knife files its teeth

across a stale loaf of bread.

left imbedded enough to

be concealed by the crust.

its handle juts out, reharnessing

a grip that is no longer there.

a dusting of breadcrumbs line

both sides of the knife, &

an absentminded return to visibility

on the table.

a clock hanging on the kitchen wall

fixates on this discarded still life--

concentrating its repression.

bending the nail that sends it to the

floor--as an accompanying piece.

a ravening intensity wants an

ongoing plane after peak experience.

there's a lopsidedness that slinks off

what evenly secures bliss.

this faithful deformity starts to show

up earlier & earlier--before arriving.

thru the inevitable dread of what it

will throw off.

there's a tap on dark's back--

ad infinitum.

it always turns around in response.

as if at the edge of a bed--the stimulus

of this gentle touch is the light it can

see coming.