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| MACHINE #15 - WILLIAM EVERTSON |
by Liz Roncka
Where is it?
Where's the song, where's the dance,
Where's the joke in this?
Where's the art, the poetry,
The hook-line-and sinker?
I turn it around and around,
Inside out
Upside down
And there's nothing
And in this nothingness is everything
That I fail to see
Because confusion and chaos is so blurry to me
Maybe if I spin faster I can match it
Spin my head so fast it will make sense
But what is the sense?
There's none to be had
Perhaps I could enjoy the fall if I wasn't looking for the bottom?
And if I let go of the bottom,
Then I am floating,
Ever suspended.
This is not the In-Between
This is not The Not
This Is
I run around the empty room,
Trying to escape the space
Faster and faster
But it surrounds me,
Corners me,
Envelopes me
All my talk is cheap and garbled.
My own words bounce off the walls,
Gently pelting my face
With the light sting of sleet
No sooner do they strike,
They melt
And what if I sat,
I know that I could
Still
In the midst
Let it rain down
Everything falling at once
I'd still be here
Falling too
Let it drip
Sink
Fall
Splash
Splatter
There's no bottom
No bottom
So you won't hit
Stand on your head
And fall the other way
The beginning
The end
It's all a mirage
An endless loop
Haven't you seen how it repeats?
The angle of the sun makes everything look different
But it's not
You're not falling
You're floating
Just stand on your head
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| LEWIS GESNER |
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| SONJA BENSKIN MESHER |