Thomas Lowe Taylor -- Moto-Plenitude

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--under my microscope of uncertain lens

Nor halt before the wasted liners, hiding behind the rules of which they are themselves
in violation, the oldest being "don't talk about it, be it." Exude. You cannot hide
what you are, no matter how much disguise or denial come into play, and play it is,
"the play of the mind" as Olson put it, "to see whether there is any mind there at all",
meaning to me, vacuous or empty, more or less non-existent, veg, not even autist.
No middle ground, really, you are or you are not. You cannot hide, nor do you
particularly want to, rather, it's a continuing struggle to get more and more out,
little deaths, until, at the end of time, you have exhausted your supply, and there
is no more, the work might be finished. That's entirely too depressing; better to
think that as you die in each moment so too are you born/reborn into the next, and
as one poem sucks some life out of you, at whatever cost the gift is made, then there
is a return or an increase in energy in your rebound from the episode of emptying,
it is filling and emptying that takes place, and in those moments when you can lose
everything, risk, show/tell, punt everything out of the arena, in those moments you
feel most alone.

So, two things must be pointed out at the beginning: First, we should stop waiting
for the apocalypse, we're in it. In it, that is, it is happening as we speak and began
some time ago. It will conclude at some point, and then we will be concerned
with rebuilding, recovery, repair, restoration--the info from within will change.
And two: Poetry is a path of, toward self perfection. It is not a craft in which
one makes objects which have value which one then trades to someone else for
credit(s), it is not a path toward fame and fortune nor anywhere else, it is
one of many paths of perfection, via meditation, risk, repetition, discovery, sensation
and all the rest and carries with it an esoteria which is not too different from that
which is reported from other endeavors. People have good things to say about
walking. And it is poetry's role to (1) and (2) via language whch makes
poetry what it is, an entrancing, potential re-patterning of consciousness,
directed from within, the evidence of which can be consumed to like effect.
A drug?

We have learned of the body's ability to create the chemicals we find so attractive,
and indeed of the relation of meditative work to the self-production of those
serotonins etc by which exercises made become real. In the pounding of our
language constructs we exercise, these inter-relationships become known.
Syntax mimics the psycho-mental spanations of the body's politic, and in binary
fluxus there emerges an equivalent construct to the mood of the moment, valued
by the consciousness at display and in relation equal in the person underhand
at the same waveform of disturbation: I am in your place again.

Words, too, have velcro fields around them in their own spontaneous soup:
as you stick one onto another, it becomes itself a new word, and any two words can
be stuck together for that effect; basically it's meta-whatever: -phor, -lingua, etc.
Before they are disposed into a syntax, an agreed-upon form of interlineation within
experience, they, words, emit their potentialities in an almost organic or magnetic
way. The word "rose" vibrates with its own speciation of itself. The poem is the
event of itself being an event being itself, a becoming.

Vaulted northerly positioned heartwax nor smoothing out to become less than the
rasker out. But what's sense to one moan is another's due. You'd heaved aside,
nor wearer bosks natural heart doorway sees me let me no bout town no feel my
way aroun feel feel my way my way a roun, sez no other, teen. Nor harps. Adds
rhythms tuned to see hours how's dust, spore-tex; latented borings what'd spent,
breeze way, counts no heat, I wanna talk, no breezes; she's non a talks--or hearing
them bet, I'd been out, too, and sent this back, then spins to set, or outer door had
knocks naking-ed, nakeding down, oh yeh, sent towards tooling fents poast.

In the otherwise unnoticed refinitions, how we are presumed innocent of course
the tides must change, see how the experimental, avant garde all around stuff
wedged into the museum science at the university, when poetry of the streets
descended into nomenclature and doubt, where there is suddenly no outside
to be "other" in of, or from, then you know the academy has won and strangled
all the loose ends out of existence, though what's obcluded narcs them spoken
signs remit absence within doubt's own air-arcs suspended, they'd been too long
unemployed not to snap at those professorships, not to blame them for thinking
of their families, but the hard-core radical in your face ignore the ships and flail
them dumbers out their own stuff kind of unknown substance was no longer to be
seen on the face of it literary hitstory may have, what Kurt Vonnegut sd
"literature should not disappear up its own asshole," meaning what of course
[loco weed, my ass]. What smells again, reminding-out what'd been overcome
in distaste, or ignored really for what it was, something new in your own imagining
what'd been there too long to remind you out is where these sponsors of doubt
retain their own declaimers of sustenance reflecting some other realm of
insignificance, here's the moon in your own showers Perseus in his declamations
of the other name. It'd have to be in simpler language: moto plenitude, an aspiration
in the midst of which your caller reminds you of the other room declensed hours,
a definition of an attitude by which the greater things approach you no longer
in the dark but reminiscent of whom you are or were in the abandoned signs of
what's left. A moto- is also auto- in its prefixive status of a promo-identity gathering
force which absolutes-out from its own center of action, nor has you supposing there
are other rhymes to spend on this action of which you are neither proud nor deceitful
in essence a reminder of sport and perhaps neither allowed nor said again is where
the dusker slights the simpleton his minks are splattered, but to denote separately,
to sign words assign them by more random models which disassociate themselves
from each other, and by making this no-glue sort of remonstrance a matter of "discourse,
of course" in the end turns into Discourse Off Course, and by the meaning of
historicism's straight line of exchange and empowerment, the line of ascendancy being
handed from one run to another nor disparate soundings of separation have I said too
much yet, and in the completely unasked-for release of information, you then
become a spawn upon the later hours of whom they seem to speak and yet become silent
at the start.

Or says good night in another lingua, francis. You'd'd plod, and marker astir nor fathom
(in private) sock toxin locks. And in the time between us, it is really the admixture of
styles which has set the tone of the age in which the most dominant, uh, tactic is collage.
The age of collage does not make it a minor period at all, nay, it is the summation at
the end of the period, our little fin de siecle triage. And so we reflect that, too.
a droop of voice/verse, or the fashion of the uncertain lens, the styles of disarray, nor sot.
Mort est dir, then nott nor saad he speek me go a tongue. Nor pluded haste wasted
no other in his science, e pluded mir, asotin. Still, I thought, more to attain fragility
than to wander the mountains of Montana on fire from within, it was in her that you
wandered so far, as if to find on the slopes of your inner landscape, a maiden so far
so fair and in between her eyes, a spot a center from within afar nor let as has.

Tonight, then, beckons with its own simplicity was held no other stays to say the same
air recon'd like doubt from his direct address which fools no one in the matter any
more, it's as if. You knew that before we started this, and you didn't say anything to
me about it, why not. I looked within and found what my duty was, or had become,
no motor to your plenty, or auto-gratuitous. Obsessively free. Not quite. Nor garnered
out, bantered out, nothing like that.


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