Thomas Lowe Taylor -- ARKSTAR

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Sooner here than not, your simplicity carries forth what's new among me; never having spasmed this particular, its a car going forth into other dimensions, and here among the rescue, I am intent still on being in your emergences the one friend you thought I'd be. Still and no other, there is continued amazement at the stand that is there, as, what speaks is also true. And love in the confidences of the heart knows no other, but holds to what is true and simple. I might say that light is true, or that the eye has its own declarations to make. What is not spoken may yet be a sign in the heart that it is making time of itself, and finding that what is there is also true and simple, making the heart a welcome place. Is it so unusual? As yet I'd spoke no outers calling forth one after the angle in and holding: this is still what is real in my own imagining, feelings coming back into the layerings of freedom itself, even though I'd waited almost too long. Its a pattern entirely outside itself, suggestive of the hearts own dominion in what is cast forth from these deeper realms which seem to have been exposed, drawn forth, made visible. After all, you are a singular destiny even to your own promises, those which you have made, and yet I call you in closer to find the heat that is there making allowances for nothing to escape notice or perusal; and here in these, uh, particular expositions, there is something newer making itself known, or at least made visible to the sense of going on.

I'd spin around again and find the center. What is described must also be known--at least in the centers of one's own being, there are areas of cognizance which are aligned with the sensations of their own recognition, that is, felt as flesh and known as one. Voiced sounds are not spectacular but carry forth what is inside. And as one is visible, as there are no secrets from our own transparency, no jettisoned deerbark at all, nor some infinitesimal destiny warped out of newer proportion into seeming itself, these would be allocations of disregard, nor presence, even, though itself described would challenge our outer into its own definitions. Who you are is this, beloved, a sign of the times itself, reinfused beyond where you might be heard, crying out for inclusion, or made into what you are by light itself. If it is half itself, then, what is new is beyond description, nor even recognized but known as the lack to which it corresponds in the mental events by which it occurs. These events are also the hearts own anchor, but made into light by what is also made intense or outer. I'd flame around again, and hold you closer than what is known but kept internal, and thrown aside in the appositions of the known. This would be our secret itself, and made aside by what is song or spoken word, made into seeming by the insistence of the heart and shared by sign into an active participle in the distances we travel, unravel, make infirm but cure or heal in our thrust toward knowing--known in and knowing of. These are the signs that are made in the beginning.



RENOB JONES for you

What's corner to the dot, a manner saying you beyond the telling out is moving before you think to speak there is some semblance of passion to your being, how you are sent one-on-one into the fray, belittling no person before you think or speak; here's a doubt which rings the surface, turning dimension and plane into the scatterings you mentioned at the heart of the matter. I've been here too long to say goodbye, but there is a moment when the rest falls away into nothingness or being, and how the scores are kept is still beyond measurement, in some outer sphere of belonging, you might say. I've held things in their own sphere beyond the hour of remission. What remains is the cool sphere of action for its own sake, or have you met anything in its own regard for who is there and who is not. And thats the total.

Assault lick. No fatter the hour, but skilled at her own touching in tune with the times, here's a movie in your face, framed after the old tunes on the radio again and again. Its a mantra for forgiveness changing from doubt to oil and musk. A friendly smile on your pillow calls the day a longing after nothing, and where love is kept from the air around you, coils and fermentations recall how there is emotion to the laughter in your heart, and what calls out again and again is the sphere of action. In the calling forth from the domain wherein you lie about, thee is spake at framers, flood and chine, and I hear a motive draining forward in your own being to be calm at all which hears them singing out against the tide and flume; it's a dark day in the heart when you hear no music at all, following fall down its roomy spin, leaf to leaving. In the heart you call a name and hear an answer, no solitude in the moon remaining out again.

I'd the door to fall away, marking you out with longer strides than you remember. Its a newer thing to say this or that, but what makes the movie real enough is the heart's own response to tide and flame. This is the hour's reminiscence. In your healing out there is some responding to be made, yet a maiden in her song is sweeter than the longest drive to the moon or taking out the spin and melt of desire's own penetrations. It is the song you remember, it is the day beyond imagining that brings you in and holds the restless heart in its own space. You'd been too far away to remember, yeilding out from the darker portions of your imagining; yet that too falls away into a mute silence and leaves you gasping for light. In the after hours, she shines in the darkened room with love's own beginnings in the heart.

Still the hours remind and stem from nothing longer than dusk. In specific time, you fold and stride along with the intensity of a marker in the sun. Here is where the trail winds outward, forming within scores you'd swept away; internalized specifics say you are the door. In passing, thee is spake aloft and sudden, but the honor of the terms is yet undone, waiting for your call. Here is the specific mention of mountains without regret; here is the longer shade of what's been met in the allowances of time and space, a recluse but fomented calm residing in the dusk.


2


Over the sooner longs, the darker marks are set aside for nobody to remember. This'd been it, but the looter plain was killed in front of you without pity or sign. And the hour itself was a meditation in reverse, scaling the sooner musks with their own destiny into a lesion or a flux. The graves were swept clean, lighted from within, and held infirm by their own imagining. These are the doors you met opening and closed. A house was going up in the wilderness, scoping out the days ahead with their own forgiveness, the trees along the road along the river glowing with their own being, calling you toward the breaking shore where there is no plain besides. And here's the others in their darkened automobiles, meeting in silence where there is no longer any tide to the answer of your mentation. And here is the moon breaking apart from its own remissions, falling into the sea with a force and imagination you don't particularly recall. Where's the door, you ask; but there is no focus to your words, and they fall apart before they are spoken, looting the light of its own forgiveness.

After you speak, it is a slighter silence for remembering, it is a passion in its own discourse to allow anything at all. Later scores revolve into imagining, and hoard presence itself like a forgotten summons. Into the lighter gasps she melts behind you, forming allowances for what was never spoken but reminded like something in the mists. The later calm forgives you too, answering out from the longer reach, speaking from the heart's own beginning that you are in tone, in palace, in the formatted spume of words arising from your own centers. And that's no rubbing in the dark, you muse, but a speaker in the heart's own Drive-In, answering calls from other planets in the forgotten language, a stroker from his own specific destiny. I'd hear something or other in the silence of the day, but there is no air to carry it. What sounds are left aside are beyond description, and your calesthenics in the jailyard have finally come to something, you guess. A darker light emanates from within yet has no shadow. Are you after gold, after all?

I'd heard the stories of the bears dancing together up in the meadows, and he had, too, reminding me how the connection makes light of us, makes us into stories in the darkened skies. She leaves the door ajar, and calls for me to enter. I do. In the darkness of your body, in the inner spaces where I can touch you, I can hear the signings of your heart welcoming me into being. It is no dream, finally, and what the air does around us is also a welcome song. In these particular hours, there is a finality to love's answering tone, a spinning formation of light between which the angels call their own day a longer song than you'd permit, almost like a single wisp of something, another donated ebb and flood shining through the years again. It's a longer road than you'd met again, but still the hours grate against reverse and calm, and still the road yawns apart from its own calm stroke. You give and give again, but the still heart hears its answer in the silence of the time. The door opens and closes with its own calm, marking out the distances you forgot to measure from the map and chain of how you left the years apart and then brought them together again, the tides rushing in again.


3


A larger angle signs away from where you are. A following or flowing ensues or closes in from behind, ringing away from no new thing under the sun; but spoke was tailed aside this reminder in your heart. There's the door and here's the sun, a signing from there again that you are meeting within doubt. But there is no other, you think, and call the day forward from its own secrets, cloaking the air with specific detail. Houses dot the scene with their own destinies. What takes place inside the deeper reaches is beyond description or imagination but still true in the hours before and after. It is the spoken sign of another age reminding itself that cardboard and plastic are the icons of the period, a newer detritus than what had been there in the silences of the heart. Nothing begins again but scores the dirt around the floor with newer seeds and flowers blooming from the sand. It is the hour of something new, and you speak slowly, not thinking that it might also be real. In the hours that follow, signs themselves become a longer plane of attention for recall and doubt. It is now.

Perhaps you went too far. It's no distinction to be further along the road than the others in the dark. No moon means that you have to follow. And in the dusk of time itself, there is a slight sensation of hope which is singed beyond allowance. Cars flood the air. Roadways are specific intentions from the builder's standpoint, but really only a suggestion that there might be a score to drive. Light. The other folks are just marking time, droning and drooling in their lisps. Cooling and crawling on the lists. A fool would spy; others would knot. Now there's a hardened force leading you on into shelter, into fermented sky, into shifting rims. It is now another force within, and what was transformed yesterday is a callus today, saying dusk, or "sheep". I don't know. These are the shores upon which unknown waves break and spin; these are the doorways into another realm which deny entry at the same time as they encourage you to press on. Even prepositions become hazy, whether either of us is real at all; still, where love allows songs to be formed on your lips there is no outer to the skin which wraps you in your self, your precious self of which you are so very protective and defensive--it sheds like an abandoned wound, staining the earth with its evaporation, making benign all that follows.

Oh no. This is an hour beside time which has slowly passed into its eternity, its writing. Would there be enough to go around? Is this a tale told by another? We are anchored in silence. Is there really "data"? You push your ladder into her flowing robes; when I call out, I hear your name answering me in the flavor of your own speaking. It is the musk of signs that bears me along, and as love's beginnings flood the turf with their own calm, it is in the morning's moving that you hear me call out and cry for what you have given into me, it is in the signing of the heart that the light begins to burn against the two of us, making something melt into itself again, and what you hear is without words, only a slighter score than light itself, making whole what was not.



STAY

Staid and elder, the sending sands, beached outer, went forward into seeming or pleasantness; or elder still. Nothing moved again, but held into what was there in the mists of chance, a beach was raised from nothingness but an abrasive powder scaled forward to the seas edges were not made even or is this a leaner? You might remind yourself of the effort at seeing, how difficult the very management of chance is in the actives of what you do intermixing attentions into the span of light which you seem to occupy even beyond the naming of things where attention itself is made into light for your own seeming as how it is. I'd no outer, but held in these hours after you call my name, looking up into the light as mediation is almost overwhelmed into who you are again, and holding out from here to there, the beach beckons as time and tide revolve from indistinctness and made some mother of your heart again.

No more than that. I've clamored after you one smooth into the next, and held what is too far away to be recompense. Was this your day again? Don't call me, I'll call you into the rooms you left behind in staid sadness was not recalled but named from this very spot you culled out and sold simple colors where the doorways chime what's your chance trance interning here to mark the day at autumn or its opposite, held like a string emanating from the spider's belly, his own soul transformed out again and again, but still the simpler terms are not met here or in disgust, even, but in the pride of the hour which remits you forward into these are the hours we missed together, thee of after longing--was this a terminal redux, the froward claim unnoticed at late hedges, spent where I held too far aside to say enough. Power the army of love in the cold, cold ground. I listened to your name against my skin. I held you close and whispered songs and focused his door into opening sails and followers, another shore wept aside in promises, or in promises wept aside in remembered airs the division of silence in your own partitions is yet a claim to dusk or doubt, a newer focus from the black warrior in your heart healing outward chimes are the rough voiced profit from doubters are the holding pattern you mentioned me to the others, I called you out into shimmering light; in his own sadness was the terminal reduced to nether reaches a skill, a flaming beach house was a meeting place to say a day a dusk, another flaming foreigner in his house of cards was not welcome, no longer welcome in the house of the raining king you sailed the beaches down the rising mists at the end of day, color to the hour, color to the kin's forwards. These are not mentioned from the handles on the door, from the lighters on the foaming canister.

I'd said this is the day and formed my own persistences from doubt to lesion, from angular recall into a heavier shambles the movies on the scream I met you in between the house and garden showers of light, showers of the roomier pain in tense or kept former, nowhere was I met in your heart a simpler man sought the way and pain to recall love' specific densities healed me out into color and the remaining signs. Spoke. Not from these indistinct allocations, but I heard his voice retreating down the hallways in some tale tole spore; shim-shammie wheeling palms; I've sent them scattering down my own rooms are specific and said intense.

I'm in the moon between you and what what. Teach me how to do. Flail these souls their own inner doubts away in tents and outer. He's too far gone to be an old man, and too loving to have given up. Waits. Make me simpler doors rewind from the mooner spin. I'd have kept you down too far to witness the evidence from my own claims. He'd rather wait until you have the money, but the car is dusted beyond measure. And when I cross the street, it's not too sunny in the empty lanes, and where they cool you down is still a memory of my own hailing frequency. And this a looter plain.

It's a slow draw from left to right. He heals them from the indistinct shadows they create in their utter ruminations from doubt. It's a clearer show you make into something imprecise to be told that here is the door and there is the plate on the floor. I have no doubts. I implement nothing but heal the causeways left in between my own showers and the later implants she said were waiting in the wings. No, it's a dull day in hell when you change pajamas and call her back into the light. I've said it before, you know, there is no change in the pocket of light. And there are no bills in the walled towns of the nether cities. It's all right. It's all change and walled cities, there in the realm of the newer sciences. No big buildings were scored alert, but read as lines and fathoms, as roomer calms and the doubt you said between us. Its the model of the day and I hear her singing. I hear the singing in the back of my mind and it is all right. I hear the singed waves of hair you spoiled me doubters on the moon. What can I say? I held you in the layer cakes of chance and surveyed my own disasters where I might. No, it's no fun to get high alone. It's rather a selfish air you deeply inhale and then spin out into the room; and where you kept aside was not some simpler harmony but the layers on the floor you kept aside, a meditation wherein and outer. I've said this before, too, but wherever you go, there you are, but not so simple as stars attracted beyond their own dimensions into some scale unthought unsaid and the mooner in his palm a spinning dragon where you let go too soon to measure and too late to feel uncomfortable. I was a chance for you to finish, and clear the pages out one by one into a specific order you might not have imagined had you not been going so fast, but then let them go into their own space like children, or like emotions you culled out into the shore and plainer mists were left behind, and culled out beyond the terminals as you rushed to finish out the day into something recalled, into something chanted from a great distance like a scream at night in the darkness of your heart, and waking unafraid, you roll over and go back.

So what had flamed up resided there before notice, before the model itself, herself. Testing out what had happened was not so much an intention as a residue of thoughts and feelings laid bare in the intensity of emotion recollected in futility, but harbored on into the fog, into the confusion of the present moment where you'd said perhaps that there was more to remember than met the eye. I'd held onto the past far too long to be comfortable with it, and the evasions of the age were no help either. In the salient moments of recall and doubt, you felt passion arising within spheres of action, culled out perhaps from the memories of who you were in the passing moment. The doorway opened and there was a dark hole on the other side, a horror, a fundamental emptiness, and yet you pursued the pathway into the morning's moments.

A scored light of other rooms with their furniture scattered in a design from the other side of the moon. A style of reminding let you down into the forest pathways, linear spoons wherever met no single pattern beyond later days and nights you scaled afar and rhythmed clearer spores their own sensations described or fluttered into safety, after all, what we all seek in the emotions of the day their own totals unknown and made specific into these and others. His words ring quietly on the radio, and the intent of these actions is not any clearer now than at other times. You are here alone in the silence of the heart, and what is beating out is the tenure of the model in her warmth and feeling. She is a moment in the room where you are keeping your heart. She is the tempo of the hours from which you define your reaching out.

Later in the day, another person comes into the room and disturbs your solitude. Is it escape that's on your mind? I met nothing in the hallways of my mind, only doors, walls, a flooring made of colored tiles left over from other jobs. It was not so much alone as a change of tense, as if, here in the moment there was no syntax or proposals relegated into silence by the beating of your heart. A beginning, perhaps, but not anything you'd write home about. A wrinkle and a beating heart. Another focus laid bare by the moving monuments. They measured it, this bruise that was left on the kneecap by a madman who later disappeared into a snowstorm. Nothing was mentioned about cause and effect, but still there was a slight edge you might remember in the darkness of your hours and sensations. I don't know. Maybe it's the layers and stratifications you hesitantly describe as your own that relieve the day. A remainder.

Still the model of your feelings is not an abstraction but contact with another human being, not simply "a part of yourself", but a definition that there is someone there in the room with you making a plain statement that this is the day to start ahead and go into the future. Without making any specific references to this or that, it's a pressure and a promise at the same time, a demand to become yourself in the darkness that follows light, in the waiting time for who they are in the midst of chance. I'd say this is the day, but there is no assurance that anything flows from anything else, only a faith that it will come. If you book them, they will come. And come again, an advertisement made from a phone booth in the midwest, a color of darkness which you have not seen before, a faith that there is one word following the other in the happiness you have.

It had palled beyond the recollection of the hours. What you'd met was not so much another hour as a description of doubt. In her heart, you were the one and only, and this was the source of your beginning, of the start. The heart's start.

The light is not a metaphor for anything, it's a glimpse of manifest no thing, words don't have any room for this, they recoil to their rightful place among the objects. The divine is a metaphor for a metaphor, distance inside of distance, the kingdom of objects raised to a higher power through encounter with an altered subject. The trick is to erase the boundaries, and to encounter what remains at the invisible line of that erasure. Self as manifest no thing, paradox compressed to a point of conscious absence, inclusive of and entirely other than. Two things in one....