Thomas Lowe Taylor -- ON THE NONMATIC

***************


Part I

"So much lost that was still unknown, perhaps an actual sense of what the precise distances were, it is no secret any more that we don't know shit, yet such finely polished ignorance in what passes for the dialectic in operando, yet still the nagging murmur that more was left aside than was particled in the final hours of the status quo in its own demeanor retreating and retreating into history and the empty silence in favor of the hot electric sense of being there on the line speaking out against the odds that it will be heard at all, you are still no more than the meat'r of the moment, in your hot complexity made stern or simple, "no problem" you say, tugging on the bill of the blue baseball cap which has only just caught the beginnings
of the rain onto its top step of forgiveness, a focus from appositive shifts made sentinel or central in this, this nervous system of light the thrusters poking doubt its plenty sheen made more simple in the seeing of what was there just now submerging in the tiger-glow a love supremeno mere exaggeration of the keeper kept fulfilled her spouting mucoid empenetrando il rapunto shored nor fault resenting feebler kinds than not spun centrals their slim potes remute nor spent, her heart hided out in what's small within squat, not larked but utter, utter in the pine & salt on her lips the lingering skein renews'd.
...The soldiers at their dues receive no welcome tents their innocence spilled on foreign shores for cause for cause enough the will of the total body stops such defying gravitons, healing from within no permitanto il rapunto "en desiree" yod plude sd sphincter rotunt, tight, in inert desputada pores her shaling spliff my sign made dark by disalliance; these what kempt some on top and while yet some not, you've still plunged fortunate forward arms sentinel the dripping flag flogged back & sent her deep within charm itself to work some magic personal inventory was held intense his spouter sporter hors nix in tent or blondo perfando hair down to here, but held and firm you'd left this, uh, document with the story inside shoots you up within intent fortune's farther out than not un-reminded why they left soon foot soldiers tear the lovers apart in sense some quiet part of yourself made outer or immense by someone's doubt he'd not occluded penis nor outer scores loop to loop within knots heard internal open microphone of
the heart your own science ploods eplumed marker knocks narcs their own sustenance poker face the spirit lags, makes peace, holds to the enormous mountain on the dogleg laid wooden sentinels in deluxe repulsion, love's full body coring deep within your sudden dance and sway of light beginning to become you who you are through you are who...."
Anabasis, "Day of Memory"

Supposed from offers sent, then, no mere sentinals have revived the hours any further than that; and where no matter has been sent, or perceived, neither has it been at all, you see, where no matter meters in the mists, then, no matter has been sent to what is still beyond description in the set of what might be perceived.
Wouldn't you have seen that? After all, what is sent is set or sentenced, too. Or that what might follow is still there as a choice, a playardo from the riskier attitudes, but holding out in chance against what the pokerface response should become, not afar but bent, you know,
outside the realms of choice or forgiveness, a solo venture not reminded from any direction in particular how it might be, or might have been, that'd be the thing to pay attention to, not some, uh, summary of intents or a description of its burgeoning stance, its faltering reprisal, unknown, the intent of its intents what gave rise to it like whiplash accidents, they're never the same after
that. A loco'ed weed tale, not particular nor remute into sensate bento, but o'er looped into its own nostalgia for meaning, like, inside it. That's the open cur, er, cue on the footsteps behind you gaining once or twice, not hereafter, nor even particular, but like bent.
And that'd no longer be in the realm of authority chastened (no longer possible) but left bereft of intent, you know, power deprived of its object just rages around and finally dies of inattention. Fires down. You'd occluded and not fondled the re-attempts of what you were doking out among your own natives, present or not, of whomsoever went into the looking in the first place to go beyond its own directions and stay firm, man, in the face of unintended fire, stasis'd out into the pattern itself, nor made intent in the first place by its own messaging, but laid bare in the face of an unmitigated gaze of no particular direction; carryover to the deal itself, then, a goal and not a direction. Less a puzzle than a gnat. Conflict enlarged into other directions. Lingering tides on the face of maps are made distinct by the gaze that falls upon them. Don't be too hard on that. Weighted a little on the heavy side, you don't mind the drift to one side or the other, and not noticing whether anything has been done to you or not, begin to etherize in the sensate realm not signing but laying the groundwork for other ideas return to discourse. Even if you'd had your own ruminant stranger to stir the fanatics, still there wouldn't have been enough time to sort it all out, not to mention the seminars and transductions, complacent or otherwise, which cud take the place of listening to the music itself....
Nor would simple inattention to the matter itself still the rain pealing on the signs along the way, misting the sense of itself a broken mirror or a match of some other destiny outlasting itself throughout the passion leaning within the gesture from the edge of the lining. I mean, here you are with the wind blowing the air out of the air leaving less than a vacuum, liver and onions on the blue screen waving free hands spinning around the day itself a liner on the weaving plane of inattention of what little has passed by, really, on the way to the post office posting out what is left behind, oh yeah, noticed on the floor of morning with your shirtsleeves out into the moving traffic lining out signers onto lame brick potentiated devil inside, every one
us, every single one of us, goes the mantra repeated song of the day beating down upon the loom and tempo, mooding slight to song the healing air bones you up the day's door
A hooted door might begin sideways emotions flailing painfilled walls give way into the rote stupor of the survivor, still intent on living you begin to do pushups in the dark, not healing exactly intent on living and finishing up some things, but still held infirm in fanatic sents the plutarde of the moto laid nonmatic in tense left firm in turn interned but held and firm, no motor in the magic but a form of surrounding and then letting the sentence go on through it one staid at a time, you said, not occluded, really, but held and firm'd to the slider in your tents a single beating on the wall's floor of what'd been shelter to some and a passing sign to others, not
reeling exactly, but left to themselves, some folks will and others just won't figure it out, it's just that simple, and all this maundering about what does it all mean is just that you got there a little late and all the marbles have been handed out, where to dance and where's to go infirm on the silence of your own solitude.
Liberties intended in the loosing of the chains, where the rote spark might have been intended to leave its own trails, still the nonmatic gears up into and within that tense intent and leaves it dusting in the trail, a little like blasting out into warp drive and finding ol' big-ears
on your doorstep the next day, you know? But I'd not noticed anything particularly one way or the other, and yet here at the edge of nothingness, the blue-white trails of the cursor and its marks on the eye are still a layer on the floor of my own imagining. Lame to the deal but still
bending might be a better way to put it. Out. And the non- of the -matic might be in the cues themselves to be uninvolved in the process at the same time leading you astray into and beyond the emotion of the moment itself.
Not caring, you might say, robo-stradic, but not informed, just, uh, inaccurate, where "accuracy" is the main thing in an exercise, not its truth or falsity, since they are always up for review, but the thing itself of whether it was rendered cautiously or not at all, or just left in the
sun to bake with the other shit.
Culinary, entrail and doom, but the rest buries itself in the time of choosing, still letting you down the way and pealing off, but not in the manner of your own motives are you laid bare but in the spark itself of what might have passed before you, here and there, and made passion a
torture in your midst. Let it go in the excesses of which it was once a part. Still you to the doorway into the next room. Loaners and dryers in their own lines, still dogging you aside and further, still leading the strays astray into and beyond the lemming trail, mountainous mounting gloom of the day before yesterday still coming among us one after the other.... I'd been occluded, too, but still held intent and firmed-over within the decorums.

They went hoodwinked along among, yet still a cement and told. I thought it was My music, non-inflammable and plain, nor spent nor held, but let out without claim or sender, and that was how it strained forward into seeming or sentences itself. That was the muter dee. Lost among sentences, but the plain itself of what is smart and what is not, and still unsaid in the simpler things of which we could just, uh, go on and on. Beautiful thing. "Boards," was how we put it on the check. Still the smell of her lingers on your hands. Lighter, too, in view of what
follows from that, you know, how the party goes on into whatever is there in sight, inside. Maybe it had followed from that into its own futures, soon you wonder whether the pressure to have been there at all was sufficient, you know, to have strained you forward in intent, thrust you
Enough into what was going on to have been of consequence in your own self made something, more or less, ballistic. And still, you held here, where you'd been before, waiting, along among, along.
Would be not so much to lose the thread, had there been one there, but to have woven its imagined existence into something, a wonder or sense of it, a complicatedness which
itself might be curious enough to embellish or cargo, lay it hold and center, make it so, the good Captain says, courageous "son of a sailor" was how he put it out, to see, then, into the blue sea, these are the times; so the party-animal-dude persona evaded him, left him alone on the beach
of impersonations and temptations, to become one syntax or another, a "tron" of sentences, loading up ammunition and then blasting out into an informative cluster, blasting it
into useless gerunds and participles of insentinence, that was how it went on the ranch, uh, before. An entire Blasto Profundo of acid trekked solitudes, made encoded ratfuck and demento from the stroked choked chicken of the typewriter and the fang of woodenness made of wonder and then let purple on the vein entire planets made from this, dispute. She of the entire purple and he of the entire vein, planets made internal, er, infernal. You'd say hell and lay your body down.
Knowledge, then, of the viscero-enterological kind, nor remoted behaviors roted across de-fruited planes, narcoleptic insensatology of the denied spirit wrestles free enough to question the iron grip of the mentato, diminishing itselfishness beyondated downer glow insider moon the particle claimant into such knowing, not a tauto- but mentatological sprain into the wilderness of one's own discontents. And in the treeing of words branching upwards into a rooted oneville, then, dog and cat emerge into their spastic intents, onomatopoeic kabalanoids where they fly in
the face of convention, relying momentarily on the elucids they pursue or invent toward, such is the cling of word on page into its constituents, or at least approximal'd to me from my own fluxuatos into the realm of the undiscovered.

What a benign bunch of shit, you ask, and go on into another story for a more relaxing fit, you know, the fit of it, wrathing at the mouth of somebody's "other" dream/scream, here is its own woolen fortune failing proudly, and strains upward clinging fox to tail the matter of the -matic into its own dimension of how, empowered, and from what source your batteries drain and reflux. Elmatico, still shelved from the last adventure, not mating into the planer realm, but shocked alive from transit to adventure itself, is this the story of your cells? Surely, then, the
blood pudding in its chemical relux and calm instills into its own sense of how the electrons are balanced, yet another pencil gleam into the cerebral cortex of your own fantasms, holograms interfused in the graying of the matter into "in locus madnessoidal," was he left aloned betoner,
no less vacuumed than not; magister plain not followed by anything, still intents into the wild abandon with which it slams into the netting, promute and skein. Below bounds, another novel entry into the fray only intimates at narrative, and yet abounds into the mental laps by
integering you into the procedural and bounty. Not more but less is the entry into the next moment, crouching as you do in the face of an onslaught of "new" information, still as it is sent, so too is it received.


Part II


But this is yet another wolf in the clothing of the image, still a more or less insensate dimension to a lack of definition, like in some kind of clotting, how the filler of the thing, articles and evasive kinds of "peradventure"s renoun you into a less than verbal entourage into the sacred heart of the paragraph, where her secret is revealed willingly, if only you'd notice. Nor matter, it is every milisecond the same way taught if you'd slow to a stop, nonmatic to the core and found in your detractions from the absolute to only recommend them more highly than you'd thought in the absence of any information to the negatory.
So you tend to mutter only about what you know, as if in tapping onto the forehead of the conscious vocalization, it's only the tech manual of the forehead responding, uh, type left, say the thing over again, such debacled intrusions as the manual will permit, nor pleasers in the
foxhold, and no more of this "see above" shit, it's either in front of you or it is not, and what's the difference anyhow, in delighting her in front of her father, you'd more or less shamed him in front of her to him, and it was the penetranto that met the chasm of her own regard, as young as she was or is, not that is no longer held in secret but displayed as a motive, you could actually touch the electrons in there, when you'd gotten so small that you could invade your own energy machinations, not a robot hold in the recesses of Voyager.
I'd held in terms infirm no pleaser in my self, but made certain on the face of it, to others, you might say, and left along the way, by myself, to pose the questions of
which I might ask. Not forgotten, nonetheless, not recalled in terms of fire and ice, cold inside, and the streets themselves remind you of doubt, inherent and responsive, a name in the winds of distaste which you might inherit and then pass on into the others beside you, yet it is a ghost feeling in the heart itself, fed by being seen though left in the wings by a sentence or a withdrawal. Here at the forgotten edge, with the rain bleating tictic on the double paned windows, I'm at sign with no thing but the self of the radio, and when the high note dives off
into a scene or a poster from the moon, I die alongside the moon itself, and that's no motor in your madness but a sign of quick retrieval. No patterned in the scone, but looped within chants.
Nor spoon withdrawal, nope unintended, but held and firm. No longer aloniated from within the centre of the acted poron of itselfed portunato. Laid up or aside, but no outer in the mists of morning, you know. Thisl'd hone up and spur the later mikes into dominance in the line of action, or said or not, but acts are the money of light and singular-out into the lates in term or noto, laid and spender, not nosotro any seemant, butt linter polks ahead slim rapunto the manner of the mook. The "netboys" and "netgirls" in their cute little units, uniforms that is, satin sheen panties and cute little red-white-blue, tightly serged up the poot-hanky, and the guys in inflatables, capes, of course, and little masks that racoon their eyes invulnerable, netscaping around the place like adverbs on retreat, all hands and eyes but no contact ever really takes the place of il penetranto, the electro-viscero -enterolgical spasming of words into their physical presence is the flow of change on your own vocable present, n'est-ce pas?
And so the golden shroud descends, from above limned like a pony on the cart, all along the highway and lining the heart with its own gold, it is love on the liners of the scene, named for another term in office, love on the moon of chance, love on the highway of light, nor il reparte not unspoken hours soul'd from mine to yours in the car or not. I'd been down the coast too many times to forget, and yet the last couple of times, it was just too too much newness and you thought, there must be an end to this, after all, we're's the outer limit of Yowza Boss! and inter mingled within the present is the giving, and it might hold onto morning, but not enough time has passed ever to read this again, yet memorize it into your visceral importunities, no, man, there must be some easier way to do this, some Drug, MDA for instance, or what is it? Ecstacy, that's the deal, the MMDA or whatever, the ol' love drug, we tried that, remember and it was popularized out like acid was, franchised to the masses with no operating manual, so it's
touchie feelie, all over again, the maskers in the mutated plain, no wrapper but another many-tongued madness frenching you in the dark, kittens licking your eyelids, whatever.
You're sold. That's it. If there Is a "you." Just as, if there really is a "self." No matter, we can still trope and grope, its a collective enterprise with encoded mutings passing for lingua transfer; yet still an image is a destiny and we all absolve into the right hand lane whenever portunated. Here's the wind, howling around the place. Ol' Rope-a-dope insinuator, the dogleg particle on the edges of the cellulite. Its a no-brainer, & that's entire, not a sludge or fence in sight, you know, the left hand a spasm in the dark for your friend and signal, but the rest is too much for dreaming, left aside within the sending is itself a massage on the temporal lobes of
whatever follows from That. Sentinal rebuke, another nomination in the halls of justice, or a food-drive gone bad in the neighborhoods, with more taking than giving going on, why not us first here at home before you care about anybody else? This accursed wave, these, uh, demographic times. Its the bell shaped curve no longer a center of idealistic hot-pants winnowing but the smooth enumerated denial of flesh in the tantra episodic realms of
the evasive and the sublime, where's the mantra in this, huh? "Loaf" you say over and over, and pretty soon you're in a pan and sliced out, bannana or hollyberry, no packaging from Orowheat will satisfy the distributor; Larry, I think.
It is. Nearly bold, and enstonced marker due, helter panted let them wide, nor homey in her bans and stalkings, bulging a little for the hem or money, him banter no pleasure but dreams a lot is the name of the driftward mono-print her delivery a pooter in the knee. Claybourne.
Esperant. Bar-holder. Finally, the ghost planet interferes. It is too large. Beneto Fluroset stares woodenly at the interfering rainbows, bounded as they are by the faces of light which are his heritage and his planet, at the same time laming toward the center of his own hologram, a doubter in his own time singing a simple song of light and dark; it is still midwinter in the holo
-hold of his denial, and the story is both teller and tale, for when he gazes down he sees, there on the floormat, a cheesburger in some paradise of his own making, space-shit intact with its pressurized follicles, a destiny away from mutiny on the subservient folds of flesh you call the host of your own enemies, another moondot spelendot subdivided in the here and now of something other than doubt. The mooner gold is still a knot in your stomach. Isn't it? Well, mine is, and no mooner is still a doubt better than none, no? The sacred spaghetti is now laid along the sides, no more than this or that, but a characterless drama inter-reams your hope and passion for another mutation of light, all novels should be banned. As repressive forms of
communication which alter consciousness and make it less receptive to "real thought" that's the right wing argument for moslemic diatribic reductios onto the face of the spasm, no figure of man permitted on the screed of the temple or the fox of the tempo, what's the diff? Make a
noodle on the rest, where's the big screen movie, how would you entertain the masses and with what if not with what's at hand, now, out there, what else would you do, to generate or perpetuate poetry, for instance, or even your own particular brand of it, the Olsonic and the total
lingo.
There'd be some sort of thrust-motor attached, a creel or bono, ya know, a tutor and a sponto. Or both in the one or either in the other, whose ship is it anyway? More like a freighter. Layered marn, the stroke of the tonto, lest and prunto. Nisk. Here's the rask, nor done nor not, but you'd know it if it asked, I can tell you that, and if you ignored the first rasputin, there's another couple and then you're done, dead, flattered at first and then flattened. My Sharona. Desperately Wanting. The wrist gores bie, na nay flexor in turn internaled, but held and first the waltz and then the tango peals your head aside, nothing in dispute, really, but the laners, the loaners, the others in the dark wanting to make contact but not first, making neither move nor mask, but staying sullen sudden then later, worse. That's the history of nowhere, what was want
then not, knotted out into something else which is entirely free. Intensated.
You'd not remind, but plenty. Noting thus laid aside, the wind howls incessant retoner in the sculptor of the beachline, for instance, holding skeletal tree shit into the dusting clouds of low-fly stealth-sands blasting through the miniature nests of drift scum like trek-flam. Lung-ko, streetwise and yet tingling with, uh, disrepute, flagged a taxi with his other flipper, a signing thing without flux or sentor, and then nailed off with a pont, while the drover spun his tomo-don alongside smiling putas with their portmanteaus ensnared. Unreflective objects, really, which never live up to their potential, it's the reflux of the outer holds them dear enough to become
something in the liner notes. This other wind in sensate rhyme no puter in the musko of the bolder signs, yet heralded with an immunity and a sign itself which dispel any sense of hesitation you might formerly have held toward the thing itself in its domain, the thing itself remanded
into custodial and realm'd into its own demeanor an intensigh formulated herein and outer. A small fish, perhaps, which resembles another "kind" of life-form, skonko sham, the latent postern of whatever follows from That.
There'd be a hierarchical demeanor, a pre-arrangement, event design inherent within a so-called chance composo, like saying there's a divine plan behind everything or even that even Hitler is in heaven, duh. No more than looking within an electron for the cosmic glue which spiritualizes the journey itself into a chemical equation, where are you in the soup of intents? Therein the outer of the flux where you shim her plenty in order to reach the total of your sux and share up into the willingness of the order to receive you, that's self sacrifice through fucking, no? Leaves her in the dusk, wanting but not giving, or enough, perhaps, the flinty due might engage her tonal, but the young skein putes your inner stuff more certain than the not of the knotted and the flue of the chimnal. This'd be dope to the doper, not its rope and climb. Finally
swinging into the room's moon, then shaving off the rest rescued by the helicopter intact.
Nonmat that he is, the chopped juice resumes some doubt or other in the syntax of its nothingness, not even meriting a mere apostrophe; anti strophe might be more like it, the
inside out of the story buried in the narrative, like Tristram('s) Shandy. Where's the beef? It'd deluxe a mime into treasure or more plenty, no doubt; you met but missed the touch or glue would be nice enough to remind you of other mid-points in recollection of the nest or plinty. A
scrim to doubt also. K-cell, the more remote of them, was awash in undisturbed recall. This was the muter dee, that of which spoken records did not mention or fail to note other. The less wise of the spoken was not present, thus the paragraph went untold into the spasm of the centuries, and this itself was cause(d) for alarum, detail, roomer goon and spill. Lates to follow.

"A white bear! Very well. Have I ever seen one?
Might I ever have seen one? Am I ever to see one? Ought I
ever to have seen one? Or can I ever see one? Would I had
seen a white bear! (for how can I imagine it?) If I should
see a white bear, what should I say? If I should never see
a white bear, what then? If I never have, can, must or
shall see a white bear alive; have I ever seen the skin of
one? Did I ever see one painted? --described? Have I
never dreamed of one? Did my father, mother, uncle, aunt,
brothers or sisters, ever see a white bear? What would
they give? How would they behave? How would the white
bear have behaved? Is he wild? Tame? Terrible? Is the
white bear worth seeing? Is there no sin in it?"
Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy

No, in the time that has followed from, say, a more original imprint, the mentation of the moment has not been interfered with by the socalled willing suspension of anything for there is no such thing as that, although forgetting yourself or where you are is more a mental lapse
or a sign of possession, divine or otherwise, and there's no pun in that, but you are not in some other place, give me a break. It's the notion of pressing narrative out of, for instance, the declension of a verb, nay, its opposite in time, in the timing of the moment, is the subtext
originally delivered and not without intention. Sterne, himself, notes "...the Game that wit has pointed is surfeiting--like toying with a Mans Mistress--it may be a Very delightful solacement to the Inamorato--tho little to the bystander." The fabric deeper by far than the layers
and examples of penetration which it may come to represent, at least insofar as man is capable of its witnessing, that in this there may be something far more apparent than what
is only hinted at or simply encompassed within the sphere of its references, you know, only hinted at in the decompression and stylizations of technique itself which Sterne was making up on the spot. And the first shall be the best. Like later Pynchon forgetting its hesitant
entries into the matter at all, his own "...leakage...."
It's really about defeating the obsessive. "Compulsion rules the nest." It's about time you mentioned that, counting, obsessing, addicting and deaddicting to basic behavior modes so you can just fucking do the dirty work, it is so obsessive, and yet to go free off the end head
over heals, you lose track of spelling and how the primitivo leads back into the narrow of the insane flat two dimensional world in which there is no time at all don't try this at home. Nonetheless the tic tic of the obsessive, Dr. Strangelove really the cosmic masturbator in
his realm, foregone onto obsessing over wha, the incompleteness of the mathematical prelude to whatever, break the pattern and you rue the consequent of madness. So in the temporary climate of attentions of which we now seek, er, speak, here is the lamer dilute of previous portions which took place in within a cosmos and a delineation of attributes which might, then, even engender story, or "a story" into being or not, however the typist goes at the end of the page, that's the direction
Grabs, as in, it is up for. Yod'd plud, we noted before, not so much an anger as a destination with no more possible at the time, it is in how we defeat obsession, the prison
of consciousness in its own obsessive counting, that's the this of that, and so forth, how can you get beyond the tic tic of the obsessive and into some other swimming pattern of which the poem is part and lingo the mere manifest of the thing going on beyond which you have suggested
everything you might have misplaced on the way to the bathroom, here and nowever not the same Gary Snyder you stepped on before, no, man, it's a different one each time..