Thomas Lowe Taylor -- LA INFATADA

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Herosion patrol. Nay, no sarks belittle nor beleaguer them as not, the rancor paling through the lessing moon, her sparks unwilling to reclaim the doubt you betrayed but left too far behind to sing or remember, that’s the clue. As, what’s left aside does not matter, nothing on the pladduh, your nostrils full of doubt as well, you’d not repluded in within chants, her play in and out of memory clues you into the road you left behind unwilling guest to the nomenclature of sound in the memory of man you trailed throughout the same highways went nowhere in particular but further on than the knot and plume of the sentries in their tombs of light, bearing their unwilling armor through the afterlife like a curse or an archetype of how to dance.
You skilled no platter on the mists of plenty like a marker in the sand along the beach huge dog prints lunging ahead of you into the fog along the shore of the last line of defense against the ghosts and spasms of what you let come into you in the night dreams of other longitudes where colors denote the code of the hours into music on the violin which clings and clues you into the now, into the room, into the latent fingertips along your spine scheming pontoons carry the dredge and bray of foreign lawyers dancing with long faces in the mists and spasms here and now in the light of time and singing and falling and falling and then letting go.
Healing forward into entities your own dominion finds the line along the sand and central hours in the mists of plenty, how you are declaimed into ecstasy in the unknown beyond what you noticed on the calm faces of the waters in their own denial of cleansing, this is the moment of calm you might imagine between sentences on the plane of time you inhabit at this particular instant of now and then.
Where’s the doubt you lingered along as well in the surf and set of the waves one on one after the other the big one climbing up your back like the curse of the centuries forecast one day or another by one soothsayer or another is not so clean or quick as this might be not really seeing ahead into the unwilling presence of the clam and glean of the warrior stance and set, one and one along the hours of the days you forgot to close the door and just look what got out… as this is the hour at hand and center sent the messages down along the highway too soon to be now and too late to be then, it’s the old balance of the spiritual equation between what’s too full and what’s too empty neither an absence or a repeat of sullen wisps of memory clogging the hours into their repetitions of dream and song.
Cool aligns the moto-sensate into another realm from which recall initiates the outer density of what’s cool. You’d imagined the rest like some ditty from the Celtic music on the radio, tales of broken dreams and eternal sacrifice in the rhythm of the days and days inside the drunken lounge and formal denial of the dream to manifest at the end of the song but ends any way at all the new line starting up to defect the rod and cone of your inattention into a vocabulary of donut and calm in the face of immensity, you just, just eat another and move on into the new moon descending hours are let inasmuch and forever a ditty on the moon.
Lay infatada hurls stoned the innocent of the first throw is he who is let, and that’s the claim of the past unattended to repeat itself forever hung in the hallways of your own recall all mixed into an unending soup of what’s left over at the end of the day you groundhog all over again the figure of the priest is moving into the field of vision like an acolyte of disuse, dreaming his own time over your own identifications with what is the known world in repute of unrepentant at last made solvent into some other movie mooning now and then a new light and sign made against the movement like ‘no resistance is offered where no claims are made,’ might remind you of the contract you signed in the dying glow of the century to the powers at bay which might or might not let you in on the ending of the song’s forced entry in the sands of mind, sing over and over, and make the darker days come sooner than not, your own worst movie is seen over and over, liking time and its song to another hour let in on the secret.
The interim president wept openly at the caskets of his family in their courtyard, and the cameras rolled into the season’s first disaster accompanied by their own busloads of equipment and emptiness in the doorways after the barnyard bloomed. What you might expect from a closed book. His claimant wed. This second blossomed into hours in the mix of plenty. This was the non. You’d not obscured the semen of the momento, hourglass and repine, but his own word choice lessened the token spring. A plenty in the sign of the marking spine. A leaner. A bank shot, off the glass.
Was it snark or outer? Nothing called back, the phone was unlisted. It was now or no other in the simple destiny of the hours, the blue and red of the moment, the here and there of the signatory, the elapse of the singular, the pineal of the robust, the singing of the song, the now of the now, the end of the day. Are there other past Cervantes? Here’s the element of rebirth into the same form, you’d never know, you’d be just ‘ahead of the game’ and not knowing. It would be an advantage you didn’t know you had, it’d be an eloquent point of reverence on your day off. It would cling. Youth ahead, but not exactly met in the distance.
Voices asided, humuncted like some other density, a further soil, an unopened lax, or a furthered hex, hoax. To lose the hour, you sail invested troops of air-light in their fortunate hours, a non-narrative repeater which sails across the highlights without intention or purpose if they are different at all yet not reminded of another aspect of solitude by the breasts of length you focus onto my face another form of movie in the line you make around something new, this is the hour of calm repeats where inside proper marts the lingo sneaking in and staying for a late launch of inclement storms ranging from left to right to now and then, but at least manifesting the particle in the cloud chamber full of sound and fury, like the tale of an idiot, meaning nothing.
This, now. A spunky dee, laid to rest in a punch through the wall of the jar to make something new, mugs of coffee with lots of scotch, tales of negative space… This’ll luck or not, now he’s crawling along the side of a building far up in the sky, the detonator is counting down to zero, this is the media sign of the moment for your constant integration and manifestation, this is the repetition of the sign which makes you crazy, the mirror into which we seek forgiveness in the hour of the virgin of our thoughts unrepentant for your loss and plenty, inadequate to your sense of self pity and renewal, unleashed against the torpor of your very signs themselves, lost in the portent of the present moment, into the this of now.
Reclines détente, affords less accumulations of more density affixed to the shadow. Here’s the doubt a manifestation of the rescued distances noticed in their own repetition a receding palette of assistances coming tiredly through the head, that’s your beleagured creations in their picket-fence allocations of the monumental, billboards of facial hair, numinous yet indistinct, how’s your own recall forming images in the mind of man, the self of the patterns of recall impinging on action itself with pain and pleasure electrodes on the trial and error mixture of incoming, sir, there’s incoming, splam! You’re on fire, sir, and the ship’s goin’ down, man, we’re goin’ down.
Affixed or impermanent, the likeness is both a retribution and a clue to what has come ahead of the sign of your inner lurking at the highway’s signs themselves betruded within the boundary and claim you made without cause or intention, here’s the hour and there’s the sky, another lesson calling you forward into the experimental wasatch of the next wave of innocence breaking on the shores of any magnificent toe-wool wound around the door. “Viva Los Vegas” on mandolins. Bob Dylan on speed. Raped ascent. Lingering attributes, the nightmare refisted into your max. Your dreams abraded into dusk. Sack rent. At the door. I’m reminded of my self at max, intentional and reputed, yet snacked at the mosquito net like a diminished reliquary, a sandy beach without logheads to bemuse, without refusals to pawn and stuff with the afterthoughts of ominous soccer games in Spanish for three hours in a motel near Carpenteria, now that was an afternoon to forget, but you couldn’t, you were there.
Bound go the hoops in tell and spawn, like a dune central prolific and intents or outer, maybe just in tents. I cut the wood and built the fire. Lame attributes of the non-mute, less vocal then nut and spaniel on their vacations. Loot the plain of its well-intentioned missives you’d not curled toward the sad vacations you didn’t want to take, the children crying all the time, you couldn’t forget the days you went away and hid, there, in the closet with a box of papers to sort through and re-order, just to make it right, with the radio under the bedcovers with its own light and heat in the dark of your wondering. That was the open sore of recall and inflammation, hustling at dark in the momento of your fate.
Lar’s no filla, stick a boon nay bun her plinty nix’d a sore recluded palm asided flint and pict no manner in the schoon yet sail here plenty more than that. The light obliged to reflect as its dignity rescinded from the anchor in the moon you’d next and sent her packing, too tense to respond to the mixtures on your plate that’d been here and knot and yet unasided from the packed train rolling south at Christmas-time, women grabbing at your hands as you walked down the aisle banging from seat to seat, yet enclouded within your own fury to be unresponsive to your self, backed into another corner with your own paint brush in hand and settling down to leave the hours behind yet managed in the details of the southern campaign which was waged without memory or purpose, any please to your open scores of the whole thing in its unremitting distance.
‘A Simple Twist of Fate’ you hum on your own collision with destiny, your own, and you laugh it off like a stoic or a wiseass; no pass, the smooth does not relinquish its own partitions of the air into some namable quotient, a god photograph on the walls of your recall and claimant strategy with respect to the unknown. It’s no use, the air crowds you with its own spume and clatter, a sandstorm at the beach, waves breaking in your dreams all night, yet the clatter is still there in the morning, the full moon hanging out over the sea at six with the sky going from gray to gray. It’s out, that’s all you can say, it’s made its move and you’re out there trying to laugh it off, brain-wedge, spastic soul-farts snag the stairwell from foam integers relaxing their hold on you. It’s not too late to just give in and let memory drown you in your own distaste.
Empanada’d scorn, your three-in-one dinner special, with the long, dry rice grains pushed up against the curve at the end of the oval shaped plate with the smiling face of plenty pushed up into the middle, deep into a sea of soupy black beans with their crown of cilantro, a cold bottle of Sol on the magenta-blue table on the terracotta floor with your heart ticking systole, diastole, day after day seeking the ballast for survival and the new moon of exploration and being at one with the evanescent flow of time through your fingers, the running sands of time of the empanada on the plate.
Rough treasure in the mix. ‘Amazing Glace’ the Chinese choir sang with a straight face. It was too late to laugh and too soon to cry, it was too true to be real and too real to be true. Busloads of them, tied up in sweatshirts of ownership and noun. A flatulent posse of wandering tools of the realm, individuated at the non. Eyed Haddam met his eyes with a wooden stare, the enema of his people in disguise in the western realms on a mission of non-importance, a tourist of light and dark. But caution is not of the winds, and the chase is not necessarily going any where in particular, you’d be sure to admit that. It’s quiet, like a spell, no one really wants to think the worst, though there’s really no reason not to, and not just to make yourself feel worse, or maybe better, but perhaps just to feel anything at all, here in the night of innocence and reason, here in the fading of the unpretentious and unrepentant noon. Here in the absence of the portal, here in the crust of night. Let.
Enflame no pleasure beyond its mist. Pale your own sentience internal spawn release and cling, the hour marks its paste into your aires and tremblings. Mortal is the claw and song, deep in the marrow of your heat and cinder, trail and moon spun into the quiet shine of the true and the seal of the particular mark you’ve made on the rest of the day. The trail winds up into the mountains where it does not end, nor time entire some cool relief to send your penitent marks upwards into the smoke above the fire in the tent you called a home and center of your time. This is the moment of which we have spoken, and this is the place which has no name, now in the hour of the hour and here in the place of the place, where the sun shows its depth in the moon of hours, here in the absence and musk of the time which is growing short, the seas rising and falling, the grain growing deep into the center of the earth’s own beginnings, deep in the seed of the hour itself made into something new by your declarations; now in the time of seeing does the image recall into morning the song and center of our being, now in the flame of the song in the time of the hour in the center of the day at the end of the song in the matter of the moment, this is the moment of which much is written, deep in the center of the hour of the moment of the matter of truth.

Ocean Park Washington January 29, 2005 © anabasis
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