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robyn art

And here at long last the body, its window cracked open at the helm, biding its own sweet time toward the pulling, the hunkering, the descent and the darkening, the lowering of the alluvial shade, the road behind it impassable, sealed as scar tissue over a barely-remembered wound, stay now in the foreseeable whatever, the here, the magnanimous and harkening, stay here all you broke-down visions, supernumerary impulse-buys and over-glutted infomercials of love, stay here betwixt and between Restless Leg Syndrome, TMJ, discretionary income and the oft-extolled pleasures of the drug-free life, O boggy and efflorescent self, self of root cellars and forgotten tinctures, of mud and excrement and loam, but still at long last the body, the non-body nearly arrived, relentless, full-throttle toward the irreparable becoming, the crossover, handoff-on-the-bridge, full surrender, point of no return, the rebate withheld, the appeal denied, woncha give us a holla, a shout out from the otha' side