Ginger Dendy What do you say when to say nothing is best and nothing can be said? When the scaffold that serves as your foundation has crumbled and those who love you love you toomuch and your lovers have no love to show. When everything only leaves you wanting. The thing you love best, know best, is the Black, and you want it bad. Or do you? Yes, you say, but then, Ah, it's too early. The moon is too full and the froth will come again with her sweet mother's blood and will foam with you in the wetness that will evaporate all too soon and then will be the time. And you're spoiled and aging and though you say you like those stretch marks across your middle, see in them an echo of tidal marks on the shore the white on white fish-bone zebra pattern against the smooth pallor of the skin appeals. But the sting of loss is all around. Strangling you. Caressing you. Lovely. So lovely. You bear your pain as well as you inflict it. Maybe better. And you're lazy and to leave you'd have a long way to travel. To trace your way back. You're many miles from that wetness or so it seems. And even if you return, will she sing to you again like she sang so long ago? Will the off-key perfection of her shrieks, if you find them once again, inform you of the optimal time for submersion? So you want it? Yeah, you want it bad. And just how bad do you want it? You want it real bad. And if you get it you'll want more, want it till you end, and if there is no end, you'll want it all the more. But how can you see if it's what you really want? When you can't know, can only feel. But it's not a question of balance or form, you say, or a question of anything, for that matter. So you wait and listen think of what you hear... Yeah. Express yourself. Squeeze head vice tight. Yeah you got it. You got it. Yeah?