Thomas Lowe Taylor -- FAVOR

THOMAS LOWE TAYLOR

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What skiller'd nomenclature in passing no more unfortunate angularities were unkempt or forgiven, without pity the looser denials were swept aside in no more than that. What's the day, anyway, and you skip the rest, moving throughout the same as this is no mere destiny, but a follower in his own soup, motelling your own airs are swept away again, no more than icing on the format of your own toes nailing away is too soon for lessening the openings in the day. This is the newer throng, deep within this as thought itself was no other than a reminder of the newer flingers.

A passion in doubt, that's his anchor in the dust, flailing wedge and hayfield, associated back, perhaps, but nonetheless a newer sign than the one around your neck. And in these or other times, there would be some measurement to collapse them into their own sentences, foretold within silence as no other was willing to do so, but carried the day ahead in wooden sighs one after the other was still another moon descending, sick of your own crap, you say, but still caught up in a slippery substance deeper laid on top of the surfaces of your own heart was still a sensation without definition, yet or not, but the stay made simpler against them one after the other calming or exploding, there was the doorway held aside from what you said was another spill, but laid up, but opened out, here and thus the loopier scores are folded away, let against hillsides in the moon's declinations, compunctual or fluttered, this is the time we held apart for counting or for a nomenclature, it was still held too firm within the anchors at fold or plasm, skippered from then to now, it is the pasture in his own psalms which is a sudden density spelled forward into the morning.

I'd held too far affirmed within sinks at his holder's vow, this was not the time to stare at the wall, bucketed down with no gloom or fruits; it held and swept all others away into the light, and how his own ships went aside was not too tempers but another calm. I held them away at first, but foolers peeled whisked plenitude, like a monster gallery benign or sustenance, this plastic bucket cocked afar no hand inside your shirt was spelled this or that, it held too soon for anyone to make measure the funnier masks her own shell or fortune led to knocks the deeper fissure at padded line his blue air beckoned, as "old fashioned" became more a shirt or covering than flowing ships were scaled to bottom or doubt, his was the fooler skim, slowing to gasp of fathom, a denial of the rest was held to stops, then shuddered like the leisure class, typing their poems out of memory, but sent to the end of time like what you forgot, and as this was no mere mention of doubt within categories, there were still too many to handle, and then dusks met a sudden shower is still your only hope in this, uh, melange of shapers.

I mentioned the rest to what was left, there within a blanket, narrative response notified you again as fold pealed away, as color bedded down, but polled them at the doorway in sentences too calm to be relieved of their own passion, his was the anchor folded into another peel. At exclamations met, theirs was an agreed-upon air, or a plan of action which was labeled and then left behind you in the dark, beyond notification, but still held together with spoons and the cake on the plate, carved, sudden and intrigues me into this or that, it is holding down, he spoke too slowly to realize.

Ships were floating out. But you counted, and let airs realize a formation of spokes tongue-to-field her own wet spines leaning out! I'd made states into their own particular definitions, but when you heal, there is the answering tides, slowly clammed up or made into special allowances for what fooled you the first time a good plot without sensation, but then leaning toward newer things were let against characters without assassination; his held, too.

I'd ship it. Too lean to mention, but blued out into forgiveness, there was the teller at the shim, there was the padded push, noticing nothing wherever you went was soon enough to crap and leap around on the dusk of your own inventions, and where his was the cooler peak, I noticed nothing again, and flooded forward these lesser hours finished. I'd psychology and her own shores, skippered within thinking, another looser claim against attention, shorter here than the mere notice of chance itslf, one ticket shredded too quickly is your own excuse to what was heaped. I'd heard of it before your own speakers, and in the time of deciding, here was the loader pushing poems up against the wall, let aside into brown or orange internal pools fructate or palliate; and what is left would cheer you inner sperm, the dusk, or his own ankles.

What'd you do? It was not, but still I waited again, noticing nothing again, but still you did it to me, waving slow arms were held too firm to pour away, too flailing or wasted, a quick irony was not met but infirm, and totaled firm, this husk, in her distant finer was the farm, not floored, but realized, intent, fashion, the manner of the sign, and inner floods pooling dunkers too rounded.

The plainer sighs were still your own hedge against immortality, and catchier phrases were held against you, too. At the pooler shim, he pestered aside from no measures were made too soon from what was left aside, and in no motorships, these pushed aside and suggested something new. I supposed a density, but it, too, held affirmed presences were likened at seeming wedge and spasm. I'd heard of the non-narrational, but this was a spasm, too. Not something extra thick, but bacon or a letter. It was not too soon to realize favoritism among the alphabet, and skippers at the calm suggestion were not the rule. What passed cogitation, this was a newer throng, and let you down without piety, into other signs the former throng too flustered or diagonal. I'd supposed supervision was not really the key. It'd shred them one on one, but the lesser demons were kept here. Major throngs inside plastic formations. His lists and lists.

Your eases, this kept them on track but shuttered. Her new breasts were bigger, but still her calm intention was shining, facelike in forgiveness, but still a hand, but still annual hands swept you away. Deep within, there was no balance, there was another term for this hucking out upon the floor, within silence, but new to the mats they swept aside. Even "something out of nothing" was still a simpler rule to obey than one to make it in the evening, on the floor, in haste or short of breath. This was a hacker's dream, pinted-out but lacquer.

A push aside, a forester at coat and deal. Held at calm, but not too soon went the distance on what was laid up for the winner. Associative realms yield into nothing unfamiliar, but sweatshirts.

Decorative and resistance, there's the deal. What'd stars no plasm folded, deeper within another calm, there was water on the nearer favors, as if what you culled had no name. A deal's a deal, you said, and did nothing after that. No matter after that, either, but held to no promises were slept or wooden. This was the anchor on your doubt, held affirmed doubts had names, too. Slid, crept, the favors on your haunch or western boots. Poker, shim, detail; all went too soon whereas inert sustenance relieved you at the sink or door. When as other's hours were seeded, this was the newer throng, and in your own hours, this was the soonest he could pall or fervor. Favors to the side, no mention at schooler palms, his own particulars contributed to the hole in your arms angling down the side, meeting one on one was too easy, but lunch as fear, but lunch as the door out, but lunch as the missing element in another drama, laid up by sudden gusts of wind, and made too soon to become another favor let in the dark without pity; this was the soonest he could demand at pool no shims the dusker in his palm, the ridged fold her inner sign, as pushing or not, the doorways were painted shut. It'd white, but not too soon, and whatever folded out was still a beckoning thigh, colored blue and purple by the dinner bell, this was something to forget and not too soon for me, either; I'd had enough to remember and let the others go their winning ways helped them out, letting go was too soon for definition, but the remake and the detail shored-up former favors shut or passioned. I skipped. And as this was another room, what went along was the denial itself, the blue airs, her own sweaters. This was the rotor at the melon, pleading for an ancient action.

Portland Oregon
2.l8.92