Thomas Lowe Taylor -- THIS WOULD BE HERE

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Nor move beyond other times have swept your own signs along. This is the neon spasm, or furthered hours my own song. Here’s my detail in your airs, go to later spires, but holding here is soon enough a name for you to call your own. I’d sorted things out, but not belonged exactly into the roomer calms; a softer skin is held by sign and line your own airs removed. But still, here is the newer life you called aside as yours, and met your own beloved in the shorter lights, these at the anchor hours.
* What’s not? The pleasured hours remain at still remiss--as you are forward or headed in, these specific shots are still one after the other, but not reminded at all, nor held nor moved. In the sailor hour, the sheeper spread reflects and holds aside. This is the nomenclature of what was said. The door. The other moon, but still holding in the less internal hours, your own anchor another room aside and floundered out, spun aside and fortuned or sailed away. A smooth surface resides here, and in other times, the also-ran holds his own reputation up for view, for vision, maybe. A lamer spoke, a floundered pier. Shots for one particular school or for a newer guise.
* In advance of what, you might ask. Is it over or is it the tale told by the man who holds the check for dinner? Post-modern what? That’s what I ask. In the folds of your cloak, it is always now, and you can’t be post-now, it’s rather like buying your future with the arms race, give me a break! I shudder to ask, nor even to smell the roses in their own habitat. It’s eclat, you might say, in line with the tale told by another. Maybe you’re the idiot. Well, I wouldn’t wonder, with things the way that they are now, you know. Shifted spasms, no epistemological bullshit stuffed or suffered--no, it’s too darned associative or maybe reflective to be imagistic or even magnetic. Why fool around with disclaimers? It’s not too late to take a stand. On something.
* Morning. Move over, baby, you’re lying across the entire bed. Not too late now to watch the clock in the non-hours when you don’t have to get up. Just try not to remember, anything at all, sailing down the looner dunes in particular density, saying nothing at all and removing doubt from your own movie. Techno shorts are sailed away, poetry a line into the future, or something like that. Stay soft, I’ll bring you to life. No, it’s a rotor claim shedding out the later calm. In no space but here is the dragon laid to rest in his otherness denied nor said from here to there, it’s a fortune in the desert in unclaimed diamonds, but not too soon to say “This is not the movie I paid to see, you know, paid good money,” or something like that. Not prose, exactly. Nor voices in the gloom. It’s the free fall from one room to another that spells the cosmic fruit to fall uncoincided in the temple of your own lobes, and here’s some real shit.
* Flux betide, a foam, a cancellation or remiss strutter--she’s aloft and flying, here you are your own doom, flooding sense with dotted light and flame. I’m a doubt, you’re the sky.
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* This would be here, or not. I’m a spasm and not tolled nor shaled cliff to say you are the one in between me and darker hours we won’t mention again. Nor death nor calm deliberation stills the motive in your own light, and as you are called ahead into your own life, you might get off your ass and try a little courage or experimentation, not just the cool revival of dusk in its own sentiments. That’s far too removed, you might say, to be considered beyond something to just, uh, spend your time on. On.
* Not a sharp line. Here is the skiller realm, but shorted outlines are slow or fast, according to nothing. Pure consciousness in its descriptions would bely prose its familiarity, its willingness to discontent in the pose of accuracy, its familial destiny or posture. They knock the giants off the map and go on into the world serious. Hear the other hours say “Now is the time!” and utter the wooden screams of the people on your front porch, still wearing polyester suits, moonies of the spiritual fold, collecting quarters into silver bags and heaving your implosions into the other sphere with measured gestures, the rehearsed implications of the drone, the robotic folder of shirts at the laundry; but here’s your friend in spine, the latter in her folded mists....
* The non-bind music floats your anchored hours into the mental space of light itself. It’s a good day for saying before you speak at all, the mooner mists are good enough for me, but not no dew on the flasks of the never moon. A darkened sky, but still your eyes ahead of me, sailing into the ether darke, a flooder in her songs and tales, moving me more deeply into what we share between us. I’ve no more data than that, but you hold aside for more, always asking for more, as if there were.
* Nowhere calls the day aside or outer. It is still now, not post-now. You’re not that smart, nor sensitive, I might add. But let’s not argue. You spoke slowly or not at all. It was cold, but I don’t remember. Not too far along the way, there was an obstruction, a pinnacle of undiscovered light or density, not not even a concept. An alteration, perhaps. But not some single thing you might spell out like astrology, or dust. I’m not going on with this anymore, you can tell that.
* It’s a spasm or a doubt, either. What’s syntax, even, but a measure of thought performing its specific gravity, like style. Flash and funk, you say, shrugging it off, but give it a try. Chicken? An attitude or love’s own shore, faulting your own penetrations of the lighted sphere without sensation or pity. Or criticism. It’s not the mind you manner, but the seance of the thing itself, looming out of the dark you forgot to describe, waiting for a guy in a coffee shop for a paint job you don’t really want to do in the first place, you just want to see what the old guy came up with for, uh, work. I’m not here, just pretending. It’s my time and I’ll do with it what I want.
* It’s shore and fault no other in the dusk, a simpler hour describes the hours between us. Light fills the room, in your own shapes made simple, made against the shore and fault itself again, leaning out into the lines you said describe will or its alien friend, love in the midst of plenty, singing against the tune for all it’s worth, shaling and spinning....
(‘93ish)