Robyn Art




Lives of the Alpha Male


First I hauled ass upstream
past the scores of hapless rubes
then it was Adios, Happy Trails, and I
was through the door.  Tremendous
sense of pulsing.  Security was nil.
Flash forward forty weeks to the hour
of my birth:  Imagine Buick passed
through keyhole.  Head secured in vise.
From there on in, it was touch and go
as I claimed the chronic scourge
of my birthright—Lotto stubs;
avarice; impure thoughts
of the waitress-dodging the sensitivity training
for the multi-district truck pull, struck
with pronged and thunderous yearnings
of the wholly physical kind.  Thrust forward
then flung back in one big cosmic
game of Foosball, our kind swim upstream faster
but in the end we die off quick.
All I ask is that my soul mate come
equipped with movable limbs because our kind
swim upstream faster but in the end we die off quick.





Exit Wound


And everything that is found there;

            And the magnanimous rustlings of trees;

And the vast and omnivorous silence,

            Mute phone in an empty room;

And the light’s residual plunderings;

            And what is the nature of your emergency;

And the past’s ensnared carcass,

            And all that is naked and kicking;

And the panic grass and wildflowers

            Around the broken trailer steps;

And the infant’s lactiferous tongue;

            And the thunderous What-Have-You’s;

And the one saying I am so lonely;

            And the gorged subsidiaries of rain;

And the lovers absconding to the hills;

            And the backless, strapless, and low-rised;

And the tremendous and constellated night;

            And the befuddled architecture of clouds;

And everything shot with green;

            And everything—everything shaking





Secret B-Sides of the Song of Songs


Music to rattle your gourd to

Music to maul the Beloved to

Music to maul the beneficent effigies of the Beloved to

Music to quiver astoundingly to

Music to breathe through a rubber gorilla mask to

Music to mangle the apparatus to

Music to stroke the cloistered thighs of strangers to

Music to assemble -the -hand truck- while- fully -engorged to

Music to finger appendages to

Music to stroke the faceless multitudes to

Music to say I-love-you-and-can-I-ram-this-head cheese-down-your-throat to

Music to smear undulants across the haunches of the Faithful to

Music to sustain moisture-related injuries to

Music to ream the corporeal corridors of your soul to

Music to jostle purposefully to

Music to swaddle the meat of infamy to

Music to heave against flesh-hillocks to,

Then leave by the swinging door