Thomas Lowe Taylor -- JUMPING, FLASHING

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The most perfect grace consists not in external ornamentation but in allowing the original material to stand forth, beautified by being given form. (I Ching, p. 495)

“Freedom is expensive,” Bill said, trying to give voice to the price of personal liberation. Surely, free association must consist in its perfect form as its opposite, what we are used to, that is, in the strangulation into public pubic discourse, as has, so let, it goes, just as a style is also a behavior, not to be remiss or over stuffed, not to go too far, that is, but how as jumps the line between seeming and saying, how you picked up the later fonts for assignation in the particulars of disuse you hold and say affirmed how and thus its this and thus, to seem as set in saying not to be anything but what’s other, how the jump itself an indication of what’s been left and what’s been assigned as perfect and distant, the jump itself propelled by what it acclaimed to in its destination of absolutes, the this of This!

Driven into the nose of defeat, who gives a rowdy ratfuck what you put down, it’s that sort of challenge that drives into word choice like a cowboy Cat D-9 rumbling down your brain in a disaster of sorts and givens, but here it is, unlike any other misuse of consciousness itself, the jump into being the sacred scared driven out of the leap into magnificence, choosing what comes after fuck in the lexicon of words given and words driven into the pleasance of your own heat licking at her fumes like an unknown zone looming before you in all its reassurance and complexity, with neither assurance nor defeat lingering in your own heat, you spill forward in some insolence or dexterity of allowances and intimations…

At start and locked into borrowed vocabularies, dictions, syntaxes, the whole trap of history, I neglected forward out of pure denial, that if a word came up through the mechanisms of selection and association, I would jump as far in the other direction as possible, I would JUMP out of the norm into its undeniable, associational, negational Other. This the early mode, as has, so let. Vincent once said there’s a book of sailor’s stories, how they got to port and then jumped ship, Jumped out of one life and into a new life, out of the old and into the new; and there was at the time three pop songs entitled “Jump”, we were all synchronized in my own time and moment into a seeing how the word said was not the word meant or thought or implicated into its own context at any one time in particular, this was the now. I remember all those choices and all those new poems where one day by one day even the subject the noun the line the syntax all was abandoned in favor of the free choice that was made even though it dragged along its whole alcohol syntax of knotted ropes and tunes and times of what drug’d you back into the longing for what was at least predictable as an evocation of start middle and finish of the holy lines of completion and destiny, how the period settled down for an evening of retreating pussy and singing the holy old song “Now you sing the due”…….

Went further, the seeming allocation of what was meant to say inside what was neither meant nor said; but the wholly insignificant of what precluded the crippled lingo of what was laid out there, might be some new line to the psycho of the event-time of the saying, nor paragraph nor either inclination nor recluse, but what the fuck was actually laid out there in the freedom of denial and its other absolutes reclined inside the line like the DNA of your own heated heart homing horny lines lingering inside doubt itself, but the only disturbing joining inside the time behind your eyes I wait for you, this as the tune looming from where you went “duh” into the lining of your own choices one-on-one, don’t disturb me if you dare, I’ll show you where the left of me has been….

I carried this forward in the looming destiny of the deserted heart I bore before me like a yolk on a pole lunging upward this is this again you said against me now is the heart of your own memory challenging the looser tunes inside my hand against my self was made no more than this: and as
each man has a time to jump like a grasshopper forward flinging the totally running broad jump of life, each man has one time he knows or not yet he comes to his destiny in the development of his days and lives a line he has carried forward in some innocuous preparation from the unknown into the never known and not remembered future which he carries before him like a flag or a destiny, finds the soil and the day and the light lingering on his signs and times as he comes down the lane flag in hand digging into the soil of his life pushing in some way he doesn’t understand that this is his day as he flings forward into the light of the coming sign here I come don’t stand in my way this is my time of time as he looms forward reaching out into the sign of the now, jumping and jumping one time only out into the meaning and the mastery of his life, how much distance will his flailing forward clenching body emanate into its future of discovery how much distance traversed today and no other meaning in the here and now of Jumping that this is the day and that this is the moment you chose against your will even but a choice of now and then that this was the moment to lean forward into the wind and light of the moment and say Yes, that This is the Moment of My Jumping and where I land is where I will….

There was this time and these jumps and these choices which became the poems of jumping even though we didn’t say so, they were poems of implication and choice and how the moment of its destiny carried words we did not know and contained choices we did not understand; so too with “flashing,” an event in acid episodes when consciousness itself rather than retinal subterfuges would imply flashbulbs in consciousness and perhaps even in the vision one had, but which nevertheless challenged the illusion of illusion (is “seeing” itself an illusion provided to consciousness by the eyes?)(false evidence appearing to be real—A.A.). You are you, it says, and in denial of the absolute, carries the psychopathic, solipsistic Self into its own destiny of unresolved substances which intend to carry through into awareness without, perhaps, leaving a trace of evidence in its perusal of doubt which becomes, uh, “language.”

So the “now” of “jumping” is both a rite of passage and an incremental moment of decision made in the course of sentencing, like, time served…. Would you have been other in the monuments of disuse we’ve come to see as possible styles of acceptance for the normative of jumps and flashes of the sublime consciousness in its own stylistic ennervations? Eh? I’d say not nor no other to the simplicities of what’s become the norm of the non, the absence of the doo wah ditty leaning into you with the onus of its own manifestations, here’s the beef, Un Bono Monumento, I call you out, beloved, I call you down from the emptiness of my designs and songs, I call you friend and call you now, in answering tides the monument said my name again, this as this in the tonality of the day we said good-bye I don’t remember any longer the decisions of my own defeat which left me plunging on the hours of repeat….

This was how I found you now and then, astir in my own wilderness and fuming in retreat at the sign of my own despair, yet a foundling of your fondling in repeat, this was the how of now. Not, you said, something of what’s been assigned as familiar nor even a novice in the snow, eh? This was the opening sign of the text itself, the document of its own arranging would have been more exact, maybe, a light you might have said you’d seen before, but the arrangements say that this is the day to go ahead, that this is the monument to the present that disperses you forward into the poem of the moment you’ve declared as life’s substances themselves arranged beyond color or completion or even description on the moment of your definition which itself was more language than the destiny of your own live lunging outward into her hands upon the waves waving into her self the sudden release of what you wanted warming around you now and then a line or portrait clinging in within your finger on her trigger leasing release into a jump or motive for the clearer climb was set ahead to become your release into the higher space where doors open and birds come forth the day we came into the house and fell on the bed the birds fluttered in from somewhere and flew around the house like signs we’d called forward out the unknown.