A try at meeting with a crony, or She dances between where she walks on rampage from an indistinct point near comfort (with home in sight still) all the way to an endpoint of shifting horizon with multiple lines, for getting there, of detours
She dances between where she walks, she spurns some looks & several carloads of close calls, forms spurious nocturnal melodies (her body’s), mingles with the objects’ bodies. She walks like falling without falling, nearly horizontal with her surface plaque of asphalt & of cobbled stones, she walks like a distorted soldier, nearly horizontal with her surface stuff of asphalt & of pavement tiles & with legs as straight as planks, each time she moves a leg she bends her trunk more forward, slightly, like a joint each time absurdly out of time. She walks a star an ambush an equation; she walks ‘an animal, a night, a cry, a (wo)man, or all of this at the same time’ (CoBrA); she slivers through an open sunshot day as if it is a night; she manages to stay away from where she is, all right, she wears fatigue & feigns a wipe across the forehead for delay effect. While still underway she has already crossed & circumnavigated all of the way she had set out to trace. For interim, she cups a baby into her mind, writhes her body into her face, makes stories, standing in(to) place. She passes trains that passing her are toy, the people frozen, tiny, model figures; & frozen as the objects are, they, everything, it, also moves. As if secretly toward an open; or openly, toward a secret kind of site. Were you waiting where you are now? asks her friend where, finally, she, dishevelled, found her. Toward her face come mostly synaesthesias of noise, to code / recode / decode / encode. This does not go so well. & before it happens she is gone, or her friend has moved along; it is sensed that she shuffles as she sprints, all the writhing odd cells of her body feel like death metal & rush to protect their idea of her fat veins; such a rush whereof the force, too much is, for her body, whereof she feels a tweak of horror. Yes pulled up (forward at a tilt on toes on tips), yes shuttered up (leaning like a rag doll into the lines of scaffold that transfix her torso itch her soul).
