Thomas Lowe Taylor -- LEANERED, FASTER AS

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You go off into the desert, weaving a little, looking back at the perspective of the
distance you came across just a minute ago; you park the car and turn around to see
the fifteen or twenty miles you just drove across: a dumpled sharkskin.
[Huelgos Revoltos, 1985]

Further hours detail somewhere north of this, answering
tides remote or sullen, hours after the demanding seasons
were here or there in something passing off, was
still another attribute insular delights, but you held affirmed
was no other turning out, and still the north winds glisten
in these or no other works the days, term of and signing
out what's still hard is in between your own signings
after her still is pushed or sudden, I thigh-out and
slip another angle dusting out is what or not,
the spin of other movies are held aside for
this is the hour, of whistle, red no terms were
spoken of silence but glistening without too much
of it is still an ether or sentinal, hours marking
out the day's doors spinning hears the story, story.

What's struggle hours, too, details calm in its registry,
tolling out the beginners at the open sign is still
hearing-out no other spreads aside, but claims your
own doorway, still here among other terms.
But what's brawny asides are stiller, here than
learning leaners, pushed out was not a pause, but a blinder
spinning hearing tools too lattitude former, but
skillers apart no outer roomer was unwelcome
from before, but heralded or as lootered finishers
are also asides within reason, but not paying attention.

Schedule-dune, the raspers folly intent, but asway.

Foddered wasn't, lately over reminisences your
beer wasn't exactly, but right, as to hearing,
tossed aside wasn't affirmed, but welcome to the
cooler wraps weren't necessarily denuded, but
a raincoat was passed overhead, your denim
your own slightness was a hearing, too,
and went too far to me a slighter blossom
was intent, internal, two-ed within my passing
from the latent scores; a holder's skin wasn't
so much as before, looting out was not too much.

Spilled as much, no motors shooting the heads out
no spillers wrinkling dusky melons again, again
those are the woolen challenges, rasping throughout
your own substance, but holders at the calm
aren't either restitutions in the musk, heaving
foreign terminals aside again, but holding out
your own details, hearing a clumsy oak would
still decide, but holders at the calm would not
deride plenty, only mock its excess, and fooling
in the midst of plenty, your's are still no other
beacons in the mists, a fooler on the skim,
but marking about the bass line shingling doubt,
scraping it out of yr skull a tide against
the hook, deeper layers retailing from their
own scales, the foster-parent of your love is
detail along, no motor on the blink, no blimps
deep within the valley's calm and disregard
for others on the line are not staying put, but
plussing-out the, eagle, tossed aside was this
degrading hour, a flux of film, the roses roses.

Loots to skim, but holds her down along the
valley, skill to skin, and holding out promise.

Roof, the flutter after, evening-out the remainder.

Yours held rap parts, in submission whipped perhaps,
no chance but weaving from design to detail, back
against the wall, and a mover fluxer moots the pun,
but allowed aside, there are others to resign again
but holding oozes, outer flicks, hearing, your hand
into her, your breath in two lungs beating hard between
the signs, and tongue, the trestle, silver light
permeates the other, you slide aside and form a sign,
this is the day no other precluded infinite hours
at prey from sign to plenty, and no others have
their colors rental and firm, but heave them overside
the fuller terms remind no color on the lawn, it is.

You'd had it up to hear, and spilled yr flame
as fast as that too soon but not insincere, a flatter
on the run; but held, but the helmet's clone and
spin, no chugger on his wrist, but their own names
for this which is how you felt, too, and still
affirmed with no release in view but the door
way way out in the fasting groves of humans,
to winders spent, but painted one-on-one his
own name for light is a detail in the mists, but
still affirmed to spades, to spins, to others
rankling about their own destinies, but too
too busy to work it out, um-hmm.

April 7, 1992
Portland Oregon