Thomas Lowe Taylor -- An homage to Bob Dylan

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A PRISONER IN A WORLD OF MYSTERY
Everything was exactly as real as it seemed

As, what’d passed unknown was not so much seen as recalled from doubt itself, no matter in the moment unsurpassed would not believe in what was said against aggression or the moon itself no mentor but the sum, a seam some noise perhaps around surround as passion’s prelude a foment or scatter, that’s the due itself. No choice not to do, no alternative but the unbearable not-knowing in the midst of not-doing. She said not, or was it knot? No difference in the plural of itself you’d met nothing in its outside colors—ant colonies and their associated poetry festivals of fart and spoon, the twin angles of the side aside in its own juices wept or wrapt. This was at or thus.
Your own passage a remote sensitivity, not a paradise or even its opposite, a gnawing snake inside your own sensations, a relativistic appropriation, an unmet sensorium, like a version. Where’d been met its other in the non? Lexicon de rigeur non plento nor spasm-out some other moon or funnel. The man at the hearing spoke into a mask-like cone, as if redording to some distant location, or else providing a translation for those who asked. Was it other? Maybe the voice of the turtle left along the way. I’d spoke like this before, even beholden to my token and signs of doubt, like he said, the stuff of life.
Don’t go on too long, it might run out like colored fluids on the ground, distinguished by their robustness and not their mettle. Decide yourself if it’s any other way around or just what it is to itself, it’s no matter to the matter of what it is. We imagine there’s a future at all, eh? North to Alaska, the rounder signals win, you drop out and hold alive along some other way reminding out the same thing forward or not reminded at purple or blue-green noise evading all sense of recall. Lane violations, like other glib noises hunkering beside the posse notwithstanding invaders’ calm, no recluse demento alive within your hands along your sighs reminding songs along the road without piety or any other manifestation of his or hat the clinger spun and silent within its’ own chant.
Rocks. The natal dune, the portion out-of-control, and then hide-asided. No lent or stammer, no cranial in the doom of outers heads them one-on-one against the tune, some small anchor to the splintered passing line, a higher rising sound against your ear, that was the ankle of doubt to which you referred prior, noxious weeds are limned at the wall’s outer. Rocks on again. Shine unmet nor mist at shore a lout and flamer, here’s the dunk no foal or charge, limits grind against you soon or not, the lummox dune and shape. What’s too many to deny, what’s not too long, or servile, a lacy-dee, a tune without spasms you’ve elongated and then left at the side of the road, no muter in your mast. Your careful work goes unnoticed, a flower in its stem of glass and water, a wafer, a knot, a doo-wah-ditty on the mask of dust. Your own business, laughably not itself. As and not of. There’s the sign along your matted squirrel, lath and plaster on your jowls a smirk and repetition nor another you’d said “not again” and then gone on forward lunging speed and bump of light the blinding flash unfurled and then let go against the non. Here’s where it went on and on again. Maybe she’s not interested but just wants to make a memory perfect again in the recluse of its own lingo remedied for a mentionable duck. That’s the light, you say and then head on out into the spirit night in the dark of today leaning forward-seeming “taking a chance on love” was how it went down again the rhythm scanning out and on. Rusty solo winds out from its ephemeral gloom.
I lean into the wind of your ribbons, stretching into time itself like the history of what has passed beyond. A ruff or ruffle, no doubt about it, scheming into the non without some destiny or portrayal, this much is certain to what you intend, This much would do it again, or not. You’d angle on bespoke, as they used to say, beyond doubt or this perverse love-affair with the non. The sentient angle is not broken nor is it tended within parameters or with some other day you should have left behind. Cling to what? Just how much worse can it possibly get? This’d eke, this’d lean aside and weep or stain.
As in ‘nothin else to do’ is how you step aside the lunging tide of what’s passin’ passion in our midst, a mammary of your own gland, younger than that now, or formal declinations among the foam persist or fathom. Late to the nooner in her eye, another sore on your gums reminds you that time is passing, too. How’s the dune, yet a single or a natter on your missed opportunities for remiss and calm, a doorway beckons like an opening, or what it is. Yet the glimmer of fortitude claims inattention from its own absence to focus on the name itself, the tone of the deal, the mass of the plume in ascendance. From formal links, this is the normal trope, screaming up and down the neck of the instrument, how your arm aches from the typing on the slotted surface, banded loops at strum and flake you’d healed in the inner eye, sent like a message to a foreign country to one who understands your dilemma, nor cures it out against hope.
At all costs, continue, damn the potatoes! What’d cur or dog? No other on the shore wiggling at the suggestion of it. No pattern to the ramble, just cause again, a snore or stamen, a liquor on the dunes themselves, a repetition, a boring stone. Bide a wee, slam a clam and pool, rank a pastor soon to musk and gloom, its’ own due, not measured or forced against its will and center. Slake a doom, pull a gee or flak a poon and skeiner. Flock a porter fuming at the gate. Scrape a doubter from the later skull or room hard in its own juices met and fatter. Shove a pouter tough along the plume but lean its’ outer frame a lute or spoon, natal and wrong, out at the running flame, trough of the running pie, lark of the pining rue. Your own dimense and skimmer, your own hoist and song, your own rope of light and tools, your own alter on the cross of lines and seasons, your absent score in the liner of the arm and horse, your own crime and fortune, your own ark.

Next on board, another spoon-fed distillation of the absolute into its’ own manner from which calculations are made for the detail of what is not explicitly said. There’s the notation on your sleeve, writhing with your hand against the wind in her ribbons or the arrows on the wall. Salient features remark, remind, continue and make their statements along with, along without. No mere decomposition remarks the heavens in their perpetual silence, as if some destiny inhered from the assumptions made that there is an answer to your question, provided you ask or other directions in the incomplete map of your heart’s echoes. I’d a liner in the moot tempos laid aside from wherever relief comes upon you in the middle of the night. There’s the noon and beckon, the plate upon the forked tongue that leads the world downside and reminiscent. His flatulent pose, his broken hoses, his allowable denials in the face of a nameless stupidity leaves you weak with the unexpressed and the fortunate outsiders at the fence muling and repose at the dark of the day and the tone of the times.
Here’s the deal—your own anchors are left in the ocean while the ship steals away into some newer Rincon of touch, boards leaning up against the seawall, teen-aged girls hokey and strewn about like leftovers. A silly whim, a newer relication from what’s not spoken or eventuated toward the celestial father unknown as it is in “no answer” to your questions. It’s not exactly futile, only irresponsible, muted in the anchor of some passion’s reclused forbidden. Host. Female to the outer banks, she weaves and slaloms along the dusky trails from the top of the hill down into the forbidden glade at the bottom, it is an idea like that which tells you the end is near, near enough to calculate but yet not stroke or pimento, a blonde horse and rider up against the moon and tangle. Can you wait just a little longer? “Just say no to hope,” the poster said, the second lady’s face smitten with a flax sincerity you might have seen on the sidewalk. It’s a revelation, muter dee, and let among the natives who are more than restless, they’re pissed. Not drunk, either, but pissed at the infantile disappearance of all that was and is once again in dispute, fathomed out of the heavens with neither pity or scorn, just dropped into the punch bowl with a solid right against your chops, blam! And wham at the signatory calm, wham at the empty chasm in front of you, aerobic fear of heights lets you dung and down, stair step at a time to say forgiveness is in the realm of the felt signification of doubt at the censor’s clamor and throng.
I’d knotted thrust against her swollen hips, as if to feel something with my left hand against the formica in my heart, no wet distances are perplexed into silence by the norm ahead, it’s a forward-seeming thing to wait too long for the first motion of a related song, one you called ahead and made a place for in the remute distances of your heart’s woe and stain…. Nor max nor pattern on the wind. No waiting in the next room. Engulf me with your light. Hunky pontoon, his other nomenclature. Remoted, like, moted again, made small and tight in your imaginary lexicon of blue floats. Skanky due or not at all, not read at all, but collected like the strange butterflies they represent at the national zoo where all states from the comatose to the ecstatic are represented in song and dance. No chances are made at all in this wooden dream of light, my finger tight into her in the dream, was there any end to it? The One of acts reminds you that there is a theme here, only not one you might apprehend with your phlogiston dials and buttons on your shirt left open to the waist or central, this is the actual name of what’s going on….
Lark it. Deal among the natural spunk, what’s left on the rug beside the bed. Hower ewe? Flax-it down the long tides measuring again in the knuckle of foreheaded spam. Folded. Morticed. Intent of the open dork clears your outer funk like an escape or a dowel strained into the light. As if, what’s familiar might mark the day atune or not, knotted soap-rope hanging in the shower. Flux-steamer, drivel snout, police total, skin of the chaliced skein, as your “robe” is shown against the sky with his face streaming blood on the surficial rim of your pain.
Lank the skrawn! Fold her back against your legs and poke it in and stay a while, moaning and kissing and striving for dawn against the moon’s own pinnacle of light. Here’s the reason to stay alive. Here’s the name you called out and got no answer. Here’s the time you said goodbye and didn’t leave. Here’s the light brigade going to its’ death in the afternoon of a forgotten war in a forgotten time for no reason but money. Here’s the time you moaned into the night and felt a pain rising through your heart.
Here’s the pinnacle of civilization about which no one is proud and from which nothing descends into history but the silence of the heavens reminding you of your solitude.
I’ve marked this sign of the sky with my own skin, but who notices? Another mark finished the day and went home without any pay but a smooth pat on the butt. I was such a dune! And here was the war on the name of time which elongated our moment by one tenth of an inch and no more, leaning into a sense of the hour which mentioned nothing but dirt. My own relatives founded the armor of the retired soldiers dying in the bar late at night over cheap drinks and cheap talk. My hero sung his poems into the microphone and had them etched onto little disks of plastic, a distribution of the are-nots clinging to the raft and singing into the night “Help me! Help me!” as the waves crashed into your eardrums with profound deafness. Alided silents.
An hour after dark, it is still light on the horizon of your intensities and forgivings. This is the hour of harm. Would you have spoken first, it might have listed to the left or right, depending on the hour of speech and the movement of your eyes, skittery or focal. What’s not to do? Really, it’s doubtful to smoke, even less so to register the morning’s clear shots into the heavens’ ceiling on the walls beside you—no escaping the continent’s elemental drive toward what it will be, not what it is already in the allowance it has for diagramming. A structure, if you will, of its own mentations. If that’s not too generous, you might move on and encounter the true nature of what it is. As has, so let. A formula for nouns and other evenings hosted toward the light. Say Idaho to me in a quiet voice, “Priest Lake” rules with lifeboats under each tree along the forty mile sides up to a point by Canada where you might slip through underwater unaware of it all. A stride aside entails no northern due, but links machine with invisible ties of clear material drawn from the air itself quickly and without pause. No matter to her musk, no deviation from the road not taken but enterprised long among shots, hard among latent fingers.
Just go ahead and call echo, he’ll answer. I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from. Paints willing schisms with their own colors and their opposites at the same rhymes, prayers uttered upward into this density without remiss or calm, a dead decay of summary which clings and scatters around the town and gardens in your heart. Lincoln-log sky with ends abutted onto blue and green. Your own munificence gathers into a knot of light and then subsides into cool gray scenting toward black. It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there. What’s the stroke along your hair, what’s the name she left on the wall, I’ve been down to the bottom of a whirlpool of lies, I ain’t looking for anything in anybody’s eyes. Calms the latent storm without knowing how or why the winds themselves knew where they are going. Stand against the hill with her ribbons blowing around you.
I came here without knowing why, a tabula rasa in repeat performance, where the knowledge grown resembled the coins thrown upon the table six times in a row and then consulted, a haruspect of the other world you will carry from here in the empty box that is your self.
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