Robin Richardson
The Art Of


It had only given you one meaning it gave it early too you in your crib with that man sitting in a folding chair with Budweiser and a book reading the book out loud so even if you didn’t understand there was the sound the girl in the woods the doll in the river a betrayal an animal whose friendship would be everything whom the girl would have to behead and that would be okay because heads are not everything you knew by language how to keep your keepers happy how to be happy yourself alone told stories wrote stories read the books of women who filled their lungs with water and with gas and with cocks who let themselves fade in a room in the rooms of their own who were their own meaning or at least whose words were words which when placed in order kept your cells regenerating the man with his Budweiser said you were his immortality he said you were him you didn’t say so but you knew he’d die and when he did your books would bury him again your books would build an empire your empire would keep your lungs clear of the water the gas the cocks well maybe would invite the archetypes the brother the sister maybe you would weave yourselves together in a tapestry on the wall in the cabin in the kingdom in the pink and pale landscape of a place you made a warm and rippled place of narrative and serotonin the man can’t get there the law can’t get there the readers the friends with their intentions are incapable of ever getting close which means you’re safe you take the archetypes in your palms in your cunt and fill yourself blind because blind is the best way to know a thing you are married to the archetypes you are married to your brother to the way your body reclines naked in this place you haven’t bothered much with food you’re svelte you’re a machine made solely for the plucking up of words and placing back in order with the quantum mess of things you thrive in uncertainty you marry the words to the photons to the mystic’s lack of self you marry everything but other human beings because other human beings are mirrors are dim are other than are utterly unknowable you marry the sand instead the way it is nothing and also is the history of the world you write down a story about the sand you sell it to Chicago to New York you sell it for a room to be alone to dress yourself in the white fur in the white of the beginning of the end of archetypes you will live on a mountain in the rain of an exceptional altitude you barely breathe don’t need to barely move you are only a manifestation are holed up in this thing to maybe make another book or two to breathe again more slowly lull into a glimpse of something greater


Found In Volume 47, No. 06
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Robin Richardson
About the Author

Robin Richardson is the author of Sit How You Want, and is Editor-in-Chief at Minola Review. Her work has appeared in Salon, Poetry Magazine, The Walrus, Hazlitt, and Tin House, among others.