Thomas Lowe Taylor -- EASTER

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the days own prizes, for itself

good's friday, blood of the lamb coursing through us
stations of attention to the body's waking
from the year as from the entirety of it

all's passion passing into light
where past passed also to the right;
scores of the heart's intense

mundane'd itself into treasures
time renews thus
encodes sensation forward

intimating immortality itself'd
through our hourly rewind
at self deeper than deep

you've broght me this again,
again reminds the before of it
spinning our outward stance

safe in the admission of transfer
haven in the outer of sign
and clear to the shining bone

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better feelings about grandfather (mom's) hauling irrigation pipe up through the trees with his 38 chev, had the lights mounted on top of the front fender, separately, so a kid could leg-straddle it and ride. my dad's cars like sacred objects, when he gave me one i trashed it. all that remains is the bitter pill, though i try to forgive them, its a little empty, not to be replaced, nor would it, nor i, either

in such a hurry to make another life to cover that one over i made this one, imperfect as it might be, in its attempt to be(come) `authentic'; now the sidewise skid rights itself and looks forward, a little impoverished by circumstance and yet palor'd from the dusks enough to reach forward into a mundane with which you seem content, enough to Do, anyway....

much to do getting my business as an artist started, not to have made a sale, but the hand might be a print on it. we'll see about all that. journies north into the lightbands of the aureolic bear-dances, singing a duet for a change of heart in the middle of something light

and just being someone is not enough either, for either of us, i'd guess. "driving to town" is something i remember. how far is calgary? i took the place of one john stocking at the univ montana, as he had been the prior gadfly intellectual, trying to talk of new ideas when the self great leslie fiedler had just burned them on national tv, somthin like that

your sweet soft self

thomas