Thomas Lowe Taylor -- TRIPWIRE POET

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


Ride the fringe, be cool
Always be cool, avoid crowds
And hunks of others.

Stray the outer line of all
The stuff that stays before you;
Bamboo spikes two feet long
Around the heart
Say what cage you came from

Say you went up into the
Pacific northwest and
Tried to disappear; say
You wrote because
You had to
Dispel the demons of whatever

Say you went forever
A long blue line again

Say you bent the waterline
Around time's own craft

Here was driven destiny
From what fuel renewed

A blue quiet day the same
Nor what peoples the calm

Wind in whining overtones
Moaning the house's boards

What was spent? More than hours
New in their own compression, new.

Call what knows the hours from
within their own temperature

Make this now or not, make it matter
Here in the misty lanes of butter light

Upwind at the lines of this, smoking
In the heat's parts made up of song

Was it spinning within its own sense
Of belonging to the world at large?

Dimensions of which increased outer
Paling signs remaining noticed along.

Nated stones, there





Of what'd been announced

To the lighter day a

Heated thus what mar

Dr Stereo makes the loan
Hears clemency appealing

Bored bones

Late summer dactyls
Called apart
From what remains
To soon to doubt
The latening of the day

In sentences left alone
Beside the flowing stone
Here's your outer due
Long among the other two

Might you climate
Or hinge among the sign
What's laid away
Might soon retime.

This'll clough or stammer
Here in the newer time;
Thus their airs are not,
And the sour finally dies.

Thee ache or tempo, nine
Nothing went wrong, just went
You could see how

Just a minute
Floating mists among
There's a later, singing
Singing now along

Still at the later two,
A Tripwire poet
Coming in underneath
All the other jive

Stealth line affirmed
At the loner gulch.