Thomas Lowe Taylor -- AT THE DULLARD MINE

***************


sans duco est

Toward north after freeing sensation. What’s. At door the mooner palm, history itself in removal or festered toward doubt and, uh, this fashionabler. He’d plotted plods and further, but made intense by something moving at the speed of spuds. There’d sail some sense of seeming, but what had made sense before was not in play today. This is it, a spunk or deeming set, at last there would sail knockers under hand, a slupper skins into her with a dealing froze, finger to skin and a moaning around the clock, that’s renewal. Or would ya say more into the sun’s own relict between her eyes a spot and central, thrusting palm the tower spun at foment & calm.

I’d held on into morning once before, and said lasting is the former pleased where the latter eased, uh, and into this fire there rested something new, perhaps, but a lesson on the plain was passed into forgiveness or women at the gate and plover, she’d spent a total on these dues, flying north to find out whether there was any one there or not; a risk was sent in calculation, but the hover meant a car was parked at the edge of the desert, with a body inside and no more evidence than that. Was there a crime or was it simply a disclosure from the chance universe that it existed after all, and that logic was merely a construct, a detail from the mirror which called reflection the realer crime of the heart in positude, gleamers at the musk, folders at the calm. Nobody home.

These are more holiday dues; after as sent would indicate that she had decided to respond, and that what was only guessed at the day before would turn into certitude on the morrow. No clues, but a smiling sign from the synchronicity of signs. You were not mad, only bent around the dikes and fasteners, where they carried the day ahead of itself but not really mattering at all. No doors opened today, and the synchro-mesh of events was in doubt, not pleasure at all. Somewhere in another city, she might or might not be getting your letter today, your proposal for a relationship. After all, a two-year’s silence was not exactly encouraging, but if you had a larger sense of events, you might be able to surmise from the residues of chance that there was something, uh, afoot. That is a simpler way, after all, and what is left in the head is still evidence (that the head is there). Pleasure is a far distant elocution, and daily repair, remission, restall’d forces declare a pincer, nor dolt his staffers forming within diagrams, it’s too pool to sail and form askancers pollute detailed retreated segmenter his doler plum at plin’t’d spun. Foamer. Salute. The door’s pealer spin rectitude no spinner demeans yr labor at (so much) an hour, has the deal emblazoned on his throat, no choker, but blood’s anchor and palm, the singer is the song, no detail but in being (there) across the floater’s spud and single, the openers have labored long enough to be a simpler rotomontade, sunk around the world in a spasm of yellowed duskers, how they dance and spin again against the duller folds, her hand on your wanker indicates an essent, transitory dude yr pressure no fucker in his dolts, but a miner at the spin, sealing dusk within a present door or position of opportunity, is there a reason? Respond the danker folds her own reel back and in, a reader, even, and holding.
There is the answer. Edited and let go into the universe of discourse, a pattern is reminiscent of its origins, and has that sort of molecular construction which would suggest a beginning or a fortunate oblivion to the dealers who hear that there is a folder to forget in the substances of doubt. Old before his time, that’s how he looks to me. Or was he ever young at all? There is a dominion of presence which defines the locus of being, or one’s sense of being there at all, a fortune or a pleasance, but there nonetheless, as if in the plenitude of sessions and forms, there is a retreat from participation, an arrogance, a maimed demeanor of more or less simplified inclusion. That’s how it looks from here, that he came into the world at a psychic age of about thirty-two and went on from there, no wah wah of the heart, only a serious, unincluded beating of the lymph system [if it beats at all] and its associated friends to forge ahead and not ever look back, which keeps you always in the present, you might think, but no longer built into a past or a season (how can you have seasons in the present?) which is a name for recall or its own pressure to be seen, screened, and then let into the valley (Pity Ross Form O’Vallee) which comes from the ancient residues of your own intention to be cleared from the forward-pressing motion of one’s body’s reclinations and doubts of itself would be cleaned off the mat, evaded from the spoon or flustered into decision by a less hostile environment. That’s the deal. No recall but in specifics, and as she waits for the letter she does not expect, what is her attitude toward you in the first place, ah, that was the one that got away, where there was nowhere to get to at all, stuck in the present as he was, but left in imaginations and recalls too deep to indicate on a single sentence, but the page itself a reminder of intentions.

Here’s the design of the thing itself. In the Dullard Mine there are no outers, only a sense of, uh, despair which is cause itself for mirth in the face of inevitable discord. Volunteers and pioneers clear the way for the strikers and their mounted wagons of microphone and placard and the last gasp of an aging workforce to remain in the specific gravity of their own marches, and the hand upon the wanker a less dominant trend than you’d describe in some destiny of acts, where you call out “This is the holy crowd!” What they call you in return is a fool or a simpler pun than would at all be recommended into forgiveness. There is no forgiveness in this plenitude of scholars, and as they mumble, so too do they weep. Roughed out. The syndrome of fording. What’s folded up in the background is another pallor, a resistance to fortunes and jacking. But there is also a mood or an indication of intelligence which fools you away from the real stuff. The other hand, as in “On the other hand”, is itself folded away like a two dimensional piece of paper, if that’s not too much of a clue. “Second Hand” means the other, not recycled clothing, it’s really about the other which is included in the heart, the hand, the wanker and its double, the shank of the spoon. If you mean one thing, you usually get another, but hope is not the clue in this restitution of homage. To the duskers borne, goes the chant, a flag of hope in the allocations of doubt, and if you look closely enough, a subject emits chance from its fissures. Heels.

I’d been out; he was standing next to me, whistling “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” A small surprise, but then, what comes around once usually comes around again, and again.

Lower on the scale of one to ten, or perhaps the long-distance call for an address is what made the morning into what it was. Being submissive, or having submitted, why is it put like that when you send out a manuscript, you’re not submissive at all, you’re being more aggressive than not.... At the end of time there are no others.
The new paragraph beckons with its own sense of possibility, of having started over in the midst of chance or change to reconcile the duties of the composed with the alternatives of the reader, or a change alternating the duties of chance to readers of the composed, or something like that, it’s the sense of beginning and beginning over and over that makes it like a formula supernatural movie, with the same stock set of responses called into play, and if there are no boundaries and there is no structure at all, then one is left with the necessity of imposing order on an otherwise random set of signs. How’s yr left? I mean, pithier nor plater, his “at bat” is begun and not flaunted at the age of the epoch (epic?). When there’s no other there is no one.

So, a liner undetermined by any other name would be a liner just the same, driven into the outfield, fielder running back and back and finally bouncing against a neoprene or visquine wall, not a wall, really, but a vertical trampoline. And as you see remains & remainder are two different things all together. Nowhere the same but in its juxtas, how they wrinkle and fall away, how she pulls apart the labia and shows the mystery to you, one stroke at a time, in the fullness of your own imagining, it is now and forever the sea bursting at your dams. Another rhyme includes a sense of possibilities into its puns and homonyms, alert. Or would you notice at all, in the intensity of the sky and the scenery of the moment, you are left alone again in the witnessing of your own mystery laid (sic.) bare (sic.), eventuation to its mental shore, metaphoric and declensed, verb to sign, the paragraph unwinds like an old song with its reminiscences of time and space, how we have traveled!

There are conclusions to be met. At the moment of composition an entire postulate is formalized, and although detours are intended in the course of revelation, or of the unwinding of the unbelievable knot, she is still there, on all fours, demanding attention, the throaty rasp of pleasure’s signs reeling in your ear, it is all one-in-the-same, or another platform for the train to arrive at, a plateau of sensation in which the other is becalmed by its own one-ness; throughout the play of the thing, dildo-head, you are omitted from the song by your very participation in it, the player is not the play, although the singer is the song. Now rub that out, if you can, and eliminate the locus of sensation from eye to finger to hand to mind, as other forces demand their own intimate behavior, nor allow any witnesses to survive. “Nobody gets out of this alive” is one of the cliche songs about life itself, how undemanding can you get? Although if a thing is both a symptom for what it really is at the same time (in the same time as it is) that it is what it is, we have a layering of existence within the same emotion, although the erotic is a witnessing of the repetition of a thing that was imagined. Setting this against metaphor, how can a thing be what it is at the same time being non-referential? One must work that out in the nature of choice and how one wants to pay attention within the instant, either to be carried forward into strangeness and solitude, or to remain in the redemptive sociality of the safety of the very naming of things, of things, not of energies or emotions, but of a rather rote distinction of objectives and fatalities, no thing but in seeing. One goes forward, even though it may be against one’s will, if will there is in the press of circumstance, as what things seem and what things are become more and more simultaneous, more attuned to a similar existence, or an identical existence within the same time-frame although possessing separate forms, or formalities, demeanors you might say for sameness in the midst of difference.

Nowhere beneath the tensor delimit, into further asks where you might begin, not into the lighted sphere, but a rather dense hour has holes sucked up within speech the reminiscent act wherein yr “futures favored forward” clings or wraps intention with its own saranwrap alcove dension, her apples flavored, her vulva tainted purple with the smell of patchouli & musk making you dream of sex even while you are having it. And further through the door of your own life, sentences gleam with their forgetfulness of how you got there in the first place, isn’t that the function of syntax, an ordered loss of memory, of beginnings, so that the act of speech or of writing, of composition anyway, is of a character that the conclusion to which one is led has nothing to do with the assumptions with which one began, a separation of beginnings and endings which is evidence of the sacred itself? And just as she comes again, I am lost in the vision of our moment to the episode itself, how we began, and what we did to prolong our moments of pleasure, these instructions gradually become blind to cause itself, leaving the solitary masturbator with his recall of what might have happened on such and such a day....

Tartar at sign. Yr moon at sixes and others. And where the day drops off into forgetfulness, there I would be with you by the fire in the coma of our being together, no longing but in being, and as “pleasure shared is pleasure doubled”, I’d not be alone again, but along-among in our gradual emptying of the selfish into its own dimension, how the waves are parted and whomsoever enters, tongue and line, along the divided highway, pillars intense regret no mounting anterior formalities, the secret story has been revealed and there are no secrets any longer than there were before you came into me with your own agenda, concealing yourself in the cloak of sensation and guilt; no, there are no longer any sensations to be made private among us as we are what encounter the self has before in its own dimension. Circular and profunct, her apples are opened wide again, and you arise beyond doubt and self into a realm of purity and emptiness which is the sign itself that you have come beyond completion into the area of symbol and synchronicity, of meaning and term, and of laughter and penetration, how the spirit itself becomes the sign for what it is, could be, becomes--answers to questions which have not yet been asked--she sings to you at night in the darkness, sings the throaty song of life beginning to be seen, sings without any song at all which is the song itself, becoming the beloved in the sleep of dreams.

Now you are complete. A day has lasted into its “next”. And if time moves, it is through you, you who do not move at all, you who sing into the heart of whomsoever seeketh finds the nature of the song in its quest a reminder that there is a song at all; and as the season becomes an emptiness, you find that there is no quest at all, there is having been there that becomes the sign for something else, and she whom you awaited has arrived again, leaving and coming at the same time, and as there is no thing made that is forever, so too is there no light that can be extinguished between you and she whom you seek, it is all one becoming that has encountered the soul in its wanderings. What follows follows nothing, what follows is origin and sign, what you are become in your selfless self of being in the center of becoming, it is the day grown more and more forgetful, as the unwinding sign encounters you at your own beginning to be the one you are.

2680 words
April 26, 1995
(C) Thomas Lowe Taylor