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Points On The Equinox

Robyn Art

Like the creation of the universe I can’t say how it happened, just that it happened: Always this time the body stirs like flaccid meat on a plate: The sky: like thinking of you, always near-crepuscular and cloaked: On B-side of me: lust and, failing that, buoyancy: What can I say about it all—ambivalent, swampy, inchoately two things at once, Hey, could you crack the window please / Hey, shut the door, it’s fucking freezing in here—somehow always awash in hyacinth even when there’s no hyacinth near: The sun: source of all life, manna, all-purpose Fryolator: Of the question, What was the hardest part? Loneliness. Loneliness. On B-side of me: Ooh I thinkaboutchaallthetime : And still the ozone-fueled sunset casts its weirdly day-glo patina over the lake, the whole horizon shuddering, then falling in on itself like a collapsed vein and though I had big dreams once (infamy, the world’s first self-emptying dishwasher) it turns out we burn in the end like any thumbed and clueless species: When I think of you: speed-metal air guitar while inhaling some ripe, superfluous fruit: Along the Parkway, plastic bags snag in the serrated leaves, tearing loose in the muscular, nurse-like wind: It didn’t happen right away, but when it came on it was a sucker punch and damn near still kills me: No matter what something, somewhere, will always be lost: Some days I’m content to occupy my own little corner of the megaplex; others, I’m incurably doughy-thighed and alone: Waking these days: simultaneously vociferous and addled: Some days my dreams are about digging; other days, the sea: In the dim half-light of the compromised world, it is already too early to say: Like loosestrife and scum commingling in the pond, like two points bisected by light, like Hey, Ho, I come not with peace but with a sword: The body, struck dumb, near mute yet singing

Robyn Art

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