Thomas Lowe Taylor -- EASEL PLENI

By Jack Goff

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This is how he eased her down the lines of time. Thrust throat forward into the seeming thrush, was told or carved beyond these these allowances you'd made for error, or the streams of her eyes wilding into latent movement. Twitching all the time, or letting a small gasp enter the atmosphere, it was all the same, there at the foot of the bed, his eyes slightly above the level of the mattress; his eye was on her sparrow, that's for sure, and the swaying of her feet from side to side indicated that something was indeed going on there where her legs joined in the middle of her body, where her hand fluttered meaningfully between the gasps of pleasure.

She knew he was there and it fed the scent of the moment, and whether forgiven or otherwise vindicated, it was the narcotic flush of sensation which lingered through memory like a chase scene in a movie, cars crashing left and right, spinning up and over each other in momentary collisions of accident and intent. Later recalled by her feet framing the exposure of the contact, the mass of her breasts erected at the end of the scene, face closed and turned to the left. The mass of the muse injected by the trance of the beloved, the scene seen in the minor of the tempos themselves, nor what remembered not by what smelled of patchouli and the odor of her clothing mixed into the bedthings, it was the unspoken alliance which leveled the hour into its own constituent pieces, left, right, then around the corner and in deep went the middle finger of the left hand. And gasped finally a scream or moan not so much of delight or release but of despair and solitude, not that she was alone......

Years later, I finally see you seated in front of me in a straight backed chair, wearing my tee shirt, your green pants gathered around your ankles, and your knees spread apart so I can see the flower of your musk opening and closing like a flesh-colored iris, or a smooth oyster on the shell of light your hand makes when you stroke yourself one way at a time, our eyes locked in the compassion of release which says all willing hours were committed to this registration and the songs made one at a time you come again into the light of the moment not without your own longing or perfume hard upon your nostrils you come again to sing to me the name of the day you arrived and sounded what songs remained the same as love's acts remit to higher pleasures shared one at a time, into the reason .

That would be the pulse inside my hand which leaves you slippery in my palm to hold it tight against you would be the air's arc which sounds its triumph like a wet motorcycle rooming through the darkness like a magic wand again entering you easily and repeatedly. Not no song to leave around the house, but a private sensation you'd mark away for rainy days in motel rooms in other towns along the side of the road where you left the leaves piling in the parking lot where strange cars went and came again what seemed like a long time to be unscathed or unparalleled or another day roofed and calm what prepared the erotic narcotic for its place in the sun your own eye made of this and this, waxing his pole in the shot you'd said "Air again" and went flying out of the room to make her fishes yelp and stream

A tingling about the ears alerts you to the first signs of her name inside, the one who comes to play at the start of morning wakes you up pale pole rising inside your hand her name on the ceiling a spot to mark the day begin and sing again what calls you out to mark the trail or the edge of the boundary stuck on the floor next to the bed where the first signs of the day are heralded light-like founded smooth between her eyes a spot and center gave you first sooning into blue or late salami rusk pounded or slid between the ribs her breasts a slowly bobbing or rolling sensation reminds you, reminds you not so much hidden as excess in retreat, eh? And by your pole you reach the upper limits of sensation once in awhile, yet still, pleasure shared is pleasure doubled, your voice reaching to me through the wire in short, stuttering yelps of measure and stain

Here at the center of the beet's purple, I lick your lips and curl into wanting shares of what we've left behind in lessons retrieved or allowed to ripen on the vine into statements of fact made into action by choice and treasure, the loom of destiny tight in the erotic slow of hand and signs left along the biological highway as lessons for the deranged and other, minor flavors of the day your tongue returns into speech from its vacation in your sighs and spasms under hand. How you flow.

Unappeased, you continue. How plentiful, how generous, how unfathomable and deep your springs bear the fountain of forgiveness to drink from the cup of your thighs in tense and rain, falling upward into the blaze of pure energy makes immortal the flux of memory's stain removed again in liberation comes again to say hello and stay for dinner inside inside your hand again upon my brow my heart my inside game my own pleasure streaming forth would mark a newer sign set just below your navel the chakra of the morning song made season and temple for the glow of the latening rusk made slowhand song you peel away and sail the moon's cloudy wisps trailing into night or morning or the day after or the sign of love upon the waters of your heart rippling further steams the pools of hidden water, the love of the hours moving mood and tempo again and again the same day becomes the one of moment and term and form and the long days retreating into their own destiny ..........