Thomas Lowe Taylor -- mas menos

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there's a sufi concept, faqd wajd, which translates as "loss gain". not a
sequence, no cause and effect, rather one thing. JL

Deluxe, or not at all, knot-a-tall. Wasn’t it ‘too much of not enough for too many’? That was it, something like an unmentionable or a faxis suspended over the ruminant stranger’s sword of whoever it was, a swinging pendulum-style over the taut underbelly of the forgotten name. Knocks us gardens, noxious guard-ins. The loop astir in the mind’s willingness to defeat itself in the name of wonder, how you said goodbye in the absented wilderness of the heart’s heat, as a door closed and another one opened. But that’s the due, you sink. A hoarse whisper in the night’s belonging. I’d said not, or knot. O, you again.
Her lanks have suddened, then collapse, as this is the known in the face of the unknown, a confrontational speech that garners its collapse at nark or settle. You’d spent historic alleys their own destiny was a word chosen among all the possible choices, but then, this is the hour of which we have spoken, silently watching the extinct make its allowable presence. “Not me!” you quip in a herald or mission to the left. That’s a grain stem in your hand, not my flower flowing sticky green slime. It’d be romance in another second, but you don’t remember. Something has been taken from me.
Call me a shithead if it makes you feel better, it surely does nothing for me. It’s the age of the done, of the non. Subtraction spells the way ahead where ‘what it is’ is set against ‘what you have’ or ‘what you see.’ I always think ‘draconian’ means ‘of draco,’ whatever the fuck that is… maybe the name of a meat cutter with blue rubber gloves on to hide his swollen hands from the distinctive light that bears down on your eyeball when you dance at the moon, song in hand, or hand-in-song. A later suck, a ladder stuck, lacquer made visible from a spray can in your eye a mother at her mark. A monkey at his muck. Your flag smothers.
Flames at line. Fluxus distinguado called non-portendo--Do Not Stick (inhere, in-here). As word choice flattens contention into a game of darts where ‘the center does not hold.’ You fly off. Commercial reloader falls into the scene, like science. That might be a clue to the Non, where climate and relinquisher scions participle the dream then flit. Against what “you have nothing to say” reclaims the hour from its empty shatter, climax of decibel warmth, of hinky scans which fall too short and funk the told at its shelter.
The Anthracite Coalition seeks your approval formally interning election privileges into the market strength of its unspoken design in the face of immortality positioned from a distance of more than you can imagine delicting some pointal scrum refluxus denoted hours in her face a smile’s mile and terminal from the locus demonstratus calls all overboard in the night’s Moonie declamations, in their neatly pressed suits, walking the streets of Missoula, Montana, on a summer’s day a long long time ago they imagined the world saved in mass marriages and big-city newspapers purchased for ad-space revenues which exceeded mass inclinations to delivery and suspicion from their twin afflictions of wait and walk.
Eyed not song or name. Loose positives make a hash of indigent warriors as they leave the field of attention to the followers and their ‘money in hand’ distinctions like gloves or woolen underwear on a summer’s day another cliché makes your middle mad a song or dance unleavened bread the tumor on the mouth clasping and loosening its grasp on the nipple of choice like a beckoning or a fever spreading across the lighter hues in their own time and measure.
Too. Not a shower or a hack. Nor flavor in respite the august warrior in demento carries the day’s risks within tactics for survival of that which, and these are more settled than less monitored inside the rhythm of what’s been acrimonious nor penetrated, like, stuck-like and then omiss, furthered lines are recollect or scrum, thence or doubled into a subtextual how-to of one’s linearity in dispute, challenged by the collectors from one’s nether self, a fossil persona which elides and makes other plans after a day like this.
Yoddle a fondle in yr handle pokes the candle into ear’s waxy depths of orange and light brown diminishing hearing to a fuzzy node held it longer and longer each way descending into what you wanted to indicate as the meaning of your life found in the passion you subsumed into the act itself like some smothering of intent or a redirection of purpose and its subservient stations of intent was really a clearing of the throat or of the air which preceded something profound, a matter, a memento, a form of light descending from source and calm as less is more depending on context of volume of shout and scream an unrelenting dark without echo. You dig? Valleys of hillocks with healthy plants stretching into their budded smoke and charm, into the removal of dust from the atmosphere resounding, the hissing, swooshing silent sound of one hand clapping its applause and demeanor in this silence of the wound, seas crashing boulder to sand to dust against the tides moving one on one into the salience of a passionate space you might remember from your youth as a wonder and a fear at the same instance of registration and collapse as fast as you can go now and then deciding not to presume or claim the seasons in their own passage.
Summer rain pounds the roof and skylight, bending the plants lighted by the desk lamp outside the window where the typer sits and claims his part of the moment with the steady click click of the keyboard, what we once heard as the clatter of the writing machine when it was a mechanical glow under the hand of the driven. How it swept away the silence it permitted to inhabit the moment without speech, how the flow of the word-things gained and flowed into some other space besides the page itself in its rectangular definition of what was said and the unspoken associations which kept the hands moving underneath the lighted space in which attention was focused onto a plane of attention indescribably invisible yet palpable to the process underway in the extension of one single line from its beginning into the darkness surrounding the planet from which it was driven, pounding out into emptiness like an allocation of doubt which was not yet infirm nor empty but which continued existence itself like a cartoon of a debauchery of intents and purposes.
Your own hoses, stacked and circled by the corner of the house, an impetuous potential of movement likened to a steed or motor, merely a turning of the switch from left to right makes the matter move and flow over the mealy surface of the dirt around the house itself punctuated by plants which glow and blossom and thrust into an uncaring air which itself is nourishment and calm in the specificity of process itself, liking what you do, that is, endeavoring at what you mean and yet continuing in what you are into the salience of the passage itself, a demeanor and palm, a form and a silence, an attitude and a motion into an unknown future which lies at the end of the line when it turns and starts back over again moving from left to right one speck at a time, peck pecking itself into the presence of your mind and attention and caring as a continuing and a prayer.
This is the hour of beginnings and of accumulation of less into more.
This is the locale of the spirit in its intention to be felt and known.

Abstain the seaweed pearls and gems on strings which latch around the neck and bring you into attending and presuming to be real enough to claim a color as your own identification within purposes or acts, to become the one you are in shim and whammy, likening some suggestion to resolve and distribution from the less into the many, from the absent into the real-enough and its consequent resistances. This’d eke your potentials from their surfaces into this eloquent gloom we all inhabit now and another, simplifications of what was once elegant and attractive down, down into a simplification and a moan. A collar phones and flails you into someone else you don’t remember. As what is aloud is also spoke. As if no master forced the action to continue but let and then let again in some permission to be strange or other, as if no matter formed the mission to resolve but said and said some more allowances are flowed and surfaced into seeming or like an inattention in reserve.
Piano tuna on the floor whipping and swirling in a quest for air, under water underneath your feet are stuck on the surface not moving but make the song a shout and hollow, our hearts woven together like a glue or fountain, a pulsing recollection of origin and throng. Otto Didact drives his car in second gear, marks the streets with pools of yellow slime and heads out into a wilderness of his own invent, a sullen hero on the plain of inattention where the cactus sticks your thumb and forefinger into the pie and halts along the way. Let me know if you get this, I mean if you receive, that’s better than not at all in the hallway smothering small affirmations under your arms where it smells rotten and gets better the next day when you dance and sing on the sunlit portico, a metal mental or a crumby loon. Score the surface with these glib wanderings and know that inside the surface itself is another form you might not have imagined in your own time and reason.
Ants clear the floor of the last reams of poem and song, scuttling up and down the hillside by the back door with their millions of legs and eyes and hearts if they have any and the queen herself inside in the dark squatting out eggs one after the other, a tiny chicken in the moonlight sacked and ruined. This desert silence is the womb of other personalities you have now invented to infer the lack of one into the absence of another, a smooth rock held under the tongue to prevent speech at all costs holding your tongue from flicking out into his eye and removing all vision from the life of the poet. Who shall remain nameless. A description and a claim. A foment and a quandary, a new line outside the document which carries indecision with it into some new realm of description, that’s the slice and pimento. So tired I can’t keep my eyes shut.
Light burns at its outer silence of what called you out—was it even wondering? Maybe not work, or maybe not sold. But sent no other in the moon and reliance. Doubled syllables mount a stain and triple, apparent disregard for motions unclaimed and made fortunate in their simplicity by invention itself, a process which denies purpose or conduct from their domains in the definition itself. Eyestrain and tempo, twin desires of the phonograph; storage and impunity, the twin desires of the swollen hand. Yours is the new building, mine is the rest. Spoon-fed anomalies, a rink of skaters in little skirts in shoes on wheels, droning an oval tune around the speakers under mirror-balls throwing arms and legs of light around the room to retune into an animal of one spirit and throng, lighted up and down the eye’s own seeing. Hears his dimension pulsate and change. Like an acid going down your throat. Expanding the mind’s eye and song as all things relate inert substances claw together and reform what brought them forth in the first place, and the hour of what it is, as what it is from the first to the last inside this hour.


mar manos

You’d ascribed too much to nothing at all, cramped in its austerity and resembling a hand along the line without any print at all; Mexican salad on the floor beside the table. Spooji Weldun collapsed at the sign of plenty in an otherwise empty day ahead to be filled with comfit and spoon against the willowing fen where the wind is too strong for one to stand up, yet a landed time was porked forward without nouns from an angry distaste for who’d leaned into a far away tune not marked or spoken, less silent than imagination’s refuted claims to have an answer to the basic questions like “wha” so far in the night’s nation respondo grass growing daily inches to the tune of a troubadour without portfolio. Heeded then at the blowing room left flattened by spoon and temblor from sounds of what went apart afar, no motor to your masts and flagons.
Here’s this, what crackles now and then a line or stupor in dark glasses he signed no voice in the air came to him like an answer to what was not thought but impressed upon the sands of time and time again gathering tides the knowledge of other days a fervor in the sign made with open finders lingering at the tune before a small crowd of three or four was all that came to the reading again and again making up to the lute or fender, Spooj, as he was called by his correspondents, affirmed the attention by ballooning lackey stamps on envelopes of disdain or fashion crumpled into a box of presence. The tires flat, the car’s paint pealing off against the pressure from outside a fluted plane flying too low and stroking into the tree lines flatter on the canvas than a photograph. A leaker, a poon, a formality from slow picking up to days not sent or leavened intent or other, but covered and roped aside into lanes and patterns.
Like a motel on the inner sea, lions and slippery slugs gigantic in the moon are heading out to take control of the mountain’s rhyme for something shorter than what’s described in the old manuals of discontent, a lord’s flaccid hope is pushed forward from anything flying too low, hair on the floor, shining stranger at the gate asking permission to enter the room. Butterfly barks restore the air in explosive finity laid aside nor Esperanto made the ark reply to his anxious looms, yet hard, yet far and song, yet name and pline, there the offer amended non to floral grooms a pull and stammer. Scarfed a plinty fool, healed another stark and center the soul’s departed evidence was let alone in organ’s underside replete to dog and dong aparted soon or formed like ministerial sums. Eye and charm on the wings of night restitute the shaking hand of the master as it comes apart before and after. This is the home of light.
Nay a home, nay a plinty. Sharp her lines of tone in these ministries of the heat where nothing stays the same but doesn’t change all that much. Private conversations beat the manner into flattened corpus as she put it. Out is not all that much. I recall your drift and saw it willingly carried forward on the currents of light which are the noon and sample, but which also refer nowhere the same into sensory datum, and which are themselves fodder for new tones of inclination and spread. Later scones are pushier than you’d thought, and yet the hillsides are conversations in another language which declaims without verbs or any linkages to other sites. Your own demento. Privacy in diction and an isolated withering on the mind’s eye sullen disrepute over the later mosques where the daily struggle is borne aside by an unseen hand you wish was there but which is not. Arced (are said) reams of bent color prism the sound of your wand through the air swoosh swoosh into the evening sun’s radiance and proper. It is a willingness of the landscape to survive these onslaughts of oil drilling and otherwise muted, benumbed attacks on the version queen. Spooji cleans his hands again and sets off to work unintended but forced. Foresaid allows no steamers inside the rays of blue and green which are the national sensations of yet another new country on the face of it, a map of unintended destinations. Narks a loaf.
“Hire them now” he screamed. Liners on the deck of the ship were formed, and new lutes spoken for are not now seamed nor even laid aside in the moonlight for measurement. I’ll aisle and then weep. “Rock the dusky fools,” Spooji replied without pity or scorn. Blue novels made November suck gas. Interface games were applied to the newer recruits, and they were made aware of light emanations and fluctuations. Would you nod apart? Would you claim the scintilla as a small ship of foam and dusk? It would help if you would respond with something other than sap. Rock me.
The appearance of a parent was not apparent. Polarized north and south as poles are wont to do, they were not left alone but stroke the liner to help others parasitize make contracts on your sudden departure from the scene. Lets it slide. Hoser. Lay that hammer down and machine gun the car into a fortunate link. Other tragedies beckon our limited sentiments for their own lingo yet scan the door with a mood or light into sensations we’ve doubted too long. Your tongue cut. Your ankles of swollen terms which are not noted in the manual at all, apart from the hoods without eye-holes. You’ll remember the white hoods from our own manual which had eye-holes cut into them. Costumery of silence. Crucifixion on the crossed arms of the guards at the door. Resilient youths of indeterminate age block the doors and push you back into your seat so that nothing will ‘go wrong.’
Ol’ Sea Hand he was called. Carrying the load properly was a part of the Spooji scatter of whistling great hymns and symphonies, and the crew of a hundred whistlers soon overpowered the latent prints on the gun itself. Aparted schemes made the parking lot wet. “The sentences! The sentences!” was all that was hard upon the waters of life. Spooji Sea Hand made the literal move to the big leagues in a rampant bus of wire and black, strong to the right hand lane, but not so sure otherwise of any particular line or fathom. Now the other tooth hurt, the one with the gold on it, indicating that it was already dead; it was a ghost disease of invisible proportions, this political climate. How was one to even get angry when it was disclosed by one’s eye-shape and internal cues. The neighbors came up from the desert to restore their lot by the sea. Nothing made any sense at all, it was all a confusion of fluctuations and disregard. “Talking out of the side of your mouth,” he noted.. It was once again fashionable to do so and so. Don’t tread on knee. Ripe your allowances and nieces down to bed. It’s not really so bad to dream, but they recur with nightly passion, leaving you selfless and defeated in the waking moments as you struggle in the refrigerator to name another bottle of unknown substances which lives at the back, in the darkness and vegetable slime of old days and nights surprised. Nothing climaxes the moon into submission like a great big green tank with a gun on it.
He mounted the gallows amid howls of masturbation where the signs were made by hand and arm signals only the privates knew. It was a loon or another laughing mule which loaded the platform with bags of wheat, and he stacked them into attractive piles worthy of a degree in some kind of space preservation which on the surface was another silly demotion of the academic into the pliant and profuse. Nowhere in the name of polemy was it named thus and so, but the door, as they say, was always open, so come on in and take your place at the right hand of dog. It’s not clear what the left hand wants, but it has your name on it etched in Vaseline. Like a version.
String light and burping filled the room with volume and control. They did not exactly ask but forged ahead into some kind of willingness to repeat accidents and cruelties where the bleep was not so much bleeped as left to someone like yourself to inhabit and make known to the others, a disease of which little was known other than its travel and scene. Floes right along. Monsters of the deep which look just like you do. People on the phone had small tinny voices, or was it your own? Submission was made in envelopes, if you can imagine that. It’s really from Yuba, where the green slime grows from the pockets at the edge of measurable densities, charted, graphed out into unusual patterns on the floor with spongy implements which have no name. No name in the seasons of your passage, no sign in the resemblance of your own decay and mildew. No light at the end of your tunnel, only a stop sign with lighted edges and barriers. Would at had and score the namers out to lunch. There is no sign at the edge of the desert indicating hope or otherwise. Lean into the wind, it’s your own passage on the street of other desires than the name’s you’d like to have emblazoned on your face—known, unknown, the rest. Personally, I’d like to be ‘the rest’ and let the bloomers flow along into the street and down the hill into the green valley where the restless flowers grow and sing. There’s no line to your fallow stream. There’s no end to your restless dream.
Tall or short, it made no difference, they all had their ‘rights.’ It came with the territory, the masters said, it was a part of being a part of a part. There was no hole. Pickled wheezes, raster dunes, allowances for error—none of it settles the air inside your molecules as quickly as a short dunce. Your own emptiness beckons into the night, your own self-satisfied strokes at the machine which claps out portions and lessons into the rough signs of time itself. All relates to all.
So it’s touch and glow, she said, shining in the night before you. It’s all sham and slam, it’s all deal and due, it’s all smooth and climb, the twin towers of ignorance and disdain for the real deal which lower you into the sand around your house. The only rocks here were brought in on a truck. These voices in my head won’t stop but clamor on and on without cessation or doubt. It’s a loud silence which fills my brain without hope or science. It’s a sensation of nothingness which has dimension and description, but I don’t know what it is. This is the non, where all relates to all.
This clunky silence has a reparation and a tone which would alarm even the deaf with its unceasing and increasing demands. Like a hungry stomach, it sings its grumble and its frothy pits with some scene of color and seeming. Then it stopped. It ground to a halting, wheezing implemento of the line and the sign, a scorier relief of the boon and the tune, a plaster cast of the sneeze and the breeze, if that’s not too simple. Your own incense curling into the air, smelling like food or like a car on the road of light. It’s a nominal collapse of the pinto in the field of dreams and screams. It’s the day you died and rose into the air with a plume of fashion and disregard and became a lighted thing.