Thomas Lowe Taylor -- r e n o b jones

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What’s corner to the dot, a manner saying you beyond the telling out is moving before you thing to speak there is some semblance of passion to your being, how you are sent one-on-one into the fray, belittling no person before you think or speak; here’s a doubt which rings the surface turning dimension and plane into the scattering you mentioned at the heart of the matter. I’ve been here too long to say good-bye, but there is a moment when the rest falls away into nothingness or being, and how the scores are kept is still beyond measurement, in some outer sphere of belonging, you might say. I’ve held things in their own sphere beyond the hour of remission. What remains is the cool sphere of action for its own sake, or have you met anything in its own regard for who is there and who is not. And that’s the total.
* Assault lick. No fatter the hour, but skilled at her own touching in tune with the times, here’s a movie in your face, framed after the old tunes on the radio again and again. Its a mantra for forgiveness changing from doubt to oil and musk. A friendly smile on your pillow calls the day a longing after nothing, and where love is kept from the air around you, coils and fermentations recall how there is emotion to the laughter in your heart, and what calls out again and again is the sphere of action. In the calling forth from the domain wherein you lie about, thee is spake at framers, flood and chine, & I hear a motive draining forward in your own being to be calm at all which hears them singing out against the tide and flume; its a dark day in the heart when you hear no music at all, following Fall down its roomy spin, leaf to leaving. In the heart you call a name and hear an answer, no solitude in the moon remaining out again.
* I’d the door to fall away, marking you out with longer strides than you remember. It’s a newer thing to say this or that, but what makes the movie real enough is the heart’s own response to tide and flame. This is the hour’s reminiscence. In your healing out there is some responding to be made, yet a maiden in her song is sweeter than the longest drive to the moon or taking out the spin and melt of desire’s own penetrations. It is the song you remember, it is the day beyond imagining that brings you in and holds the restless heart in its own space. You’d been too far away to remember, yielding out from the darker portions of your imagining; yet that too falls away into a mute silence and leaves you gasping for light. In the after hours, she shines in the darkened room with love’s own beginnings in the heart.
* Still the hours remind and stem from nothing longer than dusk. In specific time, you fold and stride along with the intensity of a marker in the sun. Here is where the trail winds outward, forming within scores you’d wept away; internalized specifics say you are the door. In passing, thee is spake aloft and sudden, but the honor of the terms is yet undone, waiting for your call. Here is the specific mention of mountains without regret; here is the longer shade of what’s been met in the allowances of time and space, a recluse but fomented calm residing in the dusk.
* Over the sooner longs, the darker marks are set aside for nobody to remember. This’d been it, but the looter plain was killed in front of you without pity or sign. And the hour itself was a meditation in reverse, scaling the sooner musks with their own destiny into a lesion or a flux. The graves were swept clean, lighted from within, and held infirm by their own imagining. These are the doors you met opening and closed. A house was going up in the wilderness, scoping out the days ahead with their own forgiveness, the trees along the road along the river glowing with their own being, calling you toward the breaking shore where there is no plain besides. And here’s the others in their darkened automobiles, meeting in silence where there is no longer any tide to the answering of your own mentation. And here is the moon breaking apart from its own remissions, falling into the sea with a force and imagination you do not recall. Where is the door, you ask, but there is no focus to your words and they fall apart before they are spoken, looting the light of its own forgiveness.
* After you speak, it is a slighter silence for remembering, it is a passion in its own discourse to allow anything at all. Later scores revolve into imagining and hoard presence itself like a forgotten summons. Into the lighter gasps she melts behind you, forming allowances for what was never spoken but reminded like something in the mists. The later calm forgives you too, answering out from the longer reach, speaking from the heart’s own beginning that you are in tone, in palace, in the formatted spume of words arising from your own centers. And that’s no rubbing in the dark, you muse, but a speaker in the heart’s own Drive-in, answering calls from other planets in the forgotten language, a stroker in his own specific destiny. I’d hear something or other in the silence of the day but there is no air to carry it. What sounds are left aside are beyond description and your calisthenics in the jailyard have finally come to something, you guess. A darker light emanates from within yet has no shadow. Are you after gold, after all?
* I’d heard the stories of the bears dancing together up in the meadows, and he had, too, reminding me how the connection makes light of us, makes us into stories in the darkened skies. She leaves the door ajar and calls for me to enter. I do. In the darkness of your body, in the inner spaces where I can touch you, I can hear the signings of your heart welcoming me into your being. It is no dream, finally, and what the air does around us is also a welcome song. In these particular hours, there is a finality to love’s answering tone, a spinning formation of light between which the angels call their own day a longer song than you’d permit, almost like a single wisp of something, another donated ebb and flood shining through the years again, but the still heart hears its answer in the silences of time. And the door opens and closes with its own calm, marking the distances you forgot to measure from the map and chain of how you left the years apart and then brought them together again, the tides rushing....
* A larger angle signs away from where you are. A following or flowing ensues or closes in from behind, ringing away from no thing new under the sun; but spoke was tailed aside this reminder in your heart. There’s the door and here’s the sun, a signing from there and again where you are meeting within doubt. But there is no other, you think, and call the day forward from its own secrets, cloaking the air with specific detail. Houses dot the scene with their own destinies. What takes place inside them in the deeper reaches is beyond description or imagination but still true in the hours before and after. It is the spoken sign of another age reminding itself that cardboard and plastic are the icons of the period, a newer detritus than what had been there in the silence of the heart. Nothing begins again but scores the dirt around the floor with newer seeds and flowers blooming in the sand. In the hours that follow, signs themselves become a longer plane of attention for recall and doubt. It is now.
* Perhaps you went too far. It’s no distinction to be further along the road than the others in the dark. No moon means that you ;have to follow. And in the dusk of time itself, there is a slight sensation of hope which is singed beyond allowance. Cars flood the air. Roadways are specific intentions from the builder’s standpoint, but really only a suggestion that there might be a score to drive. Light. The other folks are just marking time, droning and drooling in their lisps. Cooling and crawling on lists. A fool would spy; others would not. Here’s a hardened force leading you on into shelter, into fermented sky, into shifting rims. It is now another force within and what was transformed yesterday is a callus today saying dusk, or “sheep”. I don’t know. These are the shores upon which unknown waves break and spin; these are the doorways into the other realm which deny entry at the same time they encourage. Even propositions become hazy, whether either of us is real at all; still, where love allows songs to be formed on your lips, there is no outer to the skin which wraps you in your self, your precious self of which you are so very protective--it sheds like an abandoned wound staining the earth with its evaporation, making benign all that follows.
* Oh no. This is an hour beside time which has slowly passed into eternity, or writing. Would there be enough to go around? Is this a tale told by another? We are anchored in silence. Is there really “data”? You push your ladder into these flowing robes when I call out I hear your name answering me in the flavor of your own speaking. It is the musk of signs that bears me along and as love’s beginnings flood the turf with their own calm, it is in the morning’s moving that you hear me call out and cry for what you have given into me, it is in the signing of the heart that the light begins to burn against the two of us, making something melt into itself again, and what you hear is without words, only a slighter score than light itself, making whole what was not.