Thomas Lowe Taylor -- MORNINGS AND EVENINGS

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Laughter, schooler to palm, what's inside but makes no sense unknown beyond seeming, but holds along to the sides, in inert sentences, but you are waving at the sides, and heals to former slights, astir and bending, to tongue in and hold her at the sides, a speech or morning mood, what's told is not a smoother line, but something slowly unfolding in movement from one side to the other. This is the holder stuff, and moving along the wavier soups to become a thing in love's eye would store, becalm, and rise to the occasion, stiff and erect within you, a sentience or passion to light release in the time of your own moving, hears the day align into something real, storing the heart's images one after the other is not another hooter on the plain but a forest in his eyes, trees lined up beyond memory, but noting lost arrows scattered among your own memories is still the stuff of dreams, and made like something not released, it's white to the touch and spreads around you, either light or its first cousin in the streets: This is the day you spoke aloud, and mentioned one thing after the other, love's own positions on the floor, in the air, in the mind, after all, where it starts and holds.

Floater spooled, what's stuff to the grease is enough to wonder, or make something out of nothing, inert to begin, but former to what is not mentioned here, it is still here where you have not seen it before, and in some distinction reclaims the past in a pooler wisp, his demented intentions are not too soon recalled, but stay within specific parameters to describe what is going on before you. It is here and no outer spoils and deride pleasure at her distant claims on your attention. What is going on before you notice are the relevant distinctions, and the details are held from color to doubt, another sailing would be this in what is going on before you notice is the relevant distinction, and the details are held from color to doubt, and another sailing would be this in what scores from the remaining sentences; easier days have still been described, and hold you one after the other into the future, as his own names for you are as yet indistinct, and if you are used, as he said, it is not noticed, and her own scores were left aside in the rush for definition, collated as it were into a simpler order for description, rotated from beyond the paler stories within which there is intention and fluctuation. Doors open and close. There is within the quest a newer tune to imagine in your own destiny, a rap from the coast, and if you notice it at all, it would be a little too late for anyone to help you to the door, through it into the next room; after all, something lesser than doubt would welcome you into service, into use, into the future of the others in their own ways, it is how it is held in conscience that the beckoning hours have their way before them, and what meditations are beheld, there is some agony in their hesitations, there is some refusal in their consciousness of style, there is some relief in their very existence when nobody welcomes you at the gate, and your own history is perhaps a weakening of the day into its own forgiveness and simplicity, there is some air to relieve the less fortunate hours into their distinctness, and it is here that the bellows fluctuates between presence and the next day.

You hope that she would call, or that there would be a sign of forgiveness, that the attributes themselves would elongate into space or at least into the air between you; lessons from the previous realm specify a newer hour for islands, or for release, but the silence is undeniable, and the doorway is still a glistening attribute of the calm which fills history at this moment. Whatever solitude is indicted within presence, it is no other that beckons but the specificity of acts in their own magnification of the mundane. Poetry is still a possibility, but it is less so than before the moment of which we now speak; poetry was a distinction made in the haste of the hours to conclude the day's elevations, but those, too, have passed into a historical necessity which precludes the monument and its own descriptions. There is no "other" to this historicism, but still the delay occurs within which you are defined. It is the here and now which speaks to us, and wherein no outer, but poetry itself is called into question, into usefulness.

This is a test, of course, but you do not obey, and fall into color or light, waving a lighter line than you might have before you hesitated into action, into color, into history; those who have passed this way have either been ignored or left outside in the rain to rust and blow away. Where there was justice, now there is the law. Where there was ecstasy, now there are endless dialogues about love and its place in the world. Without any passion, there is a simple lust to the denials of the passage. And simple complaints fill the air without meaning. If you would simply wait, there might be a sign, you think, but it is rushing, this time after time itself has ceased to be beyond the rougher airs, intense and denied, you are a witness to your self, and hold your own poverty up as an example of simplicity. It is pertinent to description, for instance, that you might find objects in their density to be themselves in revolution from the commonplace, attempting in their vanity to dissolve and become pure light.

Would you hold? This would be an outer plus. The other days wait. What's forced as follows, and here you are intent upon what is passing, but hollowed into something less infirm than fortunate, and in some, uh, disdain is passion made less than perfect but in its sensations more profound than movement might be in its own lessons, and by what has becalmed you in this positionless document, there is some following to be made from what is here. You hold aside; you determine to these allowances in the dark that there would be light, that there would be a lessening of rancor, to whom beheld, but not following, and thereby told from what you have permitted to less accurate emissaries within, to hold apart no longer in remiss or patter, but spoke aloud to term and sign, to fold these reminiscences therein or outer; this would be it. Another spectacle is resumed, and in your own heat, there is a density, a portion or tentacle of light to what is seen, and in becoming, there is speech, there is action and discord, but holding on to the riper days, a roof, a peach, a newer star within is sentenced on beyond doubt. Following, then, the speech of others, a line becomes the forward spoke and chain. Here is the door to another room, and within which some dancers at the pole, climbing into the air with lightness and being, stories from hours left behind, from the days and nights of a calm remission, made within the heart like a witnessing. Ah, if only there were a sign to make to the others, an allowance for what is real within acts, a focus, or a lighter scheme unraveling slowly, there you would hold and wait. But not too soon. But not now; no, it is simpler still to do your thing and wait for the immersion of the hours to float away.

Heart to shore; hour to palm, the open door waits for the ringing of the hours, or spokes to shoals within. the pooler skims what speakers flip and spin. A floater in the pool. Perhaps what pulled aside was not a destiny but a fate. Perhaps what made the day was still waiting at the light. You do not know, for there is only following to be made, and no mistaking what is there for something else but for what it is. Time passes, and you see your own calm approach as a sensation, and not a progress. At the start, there is promise and intensity, but no warning. Within the frame of action, there is possibility and renewal, but no hesitation. And in the minutes there are signs of revocation and a spoken future of which you are part and sum. Would you hold? How would the hours mean? But what is settled is a progression, a futurity, a motive to light. I'd be the name I have, and then pass into another realm intact, without position or demand, but at home in the meetings of the signs I have made. Here there is no hope, only term and flame; there is the flush and spin of love's anchors wealing forward in the time of time itself. It would be light, or the stroke of flesh upon flesh. There is the motive of the hours.

What spoke within term, thus was out from what is there, but in no other maintained from this to that; was to term, and then a passing thing, bit to sign, flowing forward without inexorable density from the inner marks were flooded but also signed by light in the scheme of outer denials made like this and movies held apart are sighing drunk on what is inside, in relation to, or out of the mark as held by the force within, is holding still in time, at here.

It is what signs between lines, sum to part, the angular distance coming into, within focus, or posted outer spoils recluse and calm. What's plussed outer, coded forms relinquishing into meaning, what speaks through spontaneous discharge, sahaja of light, the internal gloom made formal by precedent, by history in its claims for attention to seem, then, at being what is real enough to declaim, to devour head tail to ouroboric intent, he says, in what is thrust outer foils presume whiptail and outer, to be the one or the other, but lined out beyond the news, as momentous as it might become. You are reminding of what is there beyond the screen of your own inattention to the messages from your own receptors, antennae in the night, whipped out, "antennae of the race" Pound calls 'em. That is really too accurate to be passed over as a gloss or metaphor on the sensory apparatus of conscious declamation, not simply a character set or induction of social role to the discard persona of "poet". His is a singular density, "being there" as even Gertrude has it, a creature of his times, but not, seriously, anything more than that. Evolutionary personality set, gained from the press of it, indeed, might be more, yes there might be more to it than "that".

Pronouns declare intentions within language's structures, and even attitudes toward 'the new' might be more than simple careerism. It is the set of the thing in its domain, the character of the person underway, and, and, we add, the nature of the battle taking place as well as the conditions and rules whereby the ground rules are set.