Thomas Lowe Taylor -- NOTHING IN PARTICULAR

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Insignificant material encoded. Bitemarks light the evening sky within temporal skin, as if not mentioned butt held and firm. The sensory layer between the definition and what follows it into the other room, like a covering between you and doubt, like a smooth anchor where you held it down. Between definition and repose, there is a silence entertaining the eyeball in your hand. As if you’d spent the day alone.
At home on the Lanker Dee, he spoils the air with his breath, words formed alongside mental disturbations, the Judge sat in the chair before her and masturbated. In some newer avenue, there was a quickening from the interior of the lingo itself, another orange disk in memory’s late skies. This was where you left off and smoothed aside another empty moon. Crawlspace from the nether depths, oozing animations clear the air and huck bowls of light against the door. It opens. Would you call me another day?
I’d heard lightweight scrawn, linked from offal rites the length of which return some fathom pothole, screen, links to smoother asides. Your own musk of fleeting poems hole the day into sinking feelings, smothering, a fleet dream of having been there against your will in quicksand memory the liners remote and sensated from aisle reaps toward monkey shit falling ceiling-wise, inert waves reascend making sentences turn upsideways down at the end of the day.
Fatal. This rasp of wooden dongs, smoke rising from your empty ears, this vacuum in your heart is not healing slowly but enlarging into the continent, as if Now were the solitary clue. I’m a farmer. The clasp holds her hair away from her face, it bleeds green and purple songs into the firmament where there are no havens, no palls. Lineations of out, the smoother angle decorates basically simple emotions within their own areas, as if there were something to decide beyond the easier assumptions. It’d skate.
“The harvest must come,” he said at the gate. Upstairs, the old people were shrinking daily, moving around the rooms at night in gradually smaller circles, heaving memories over the balcony along with unwanted relatives, to what? Relative to what. In blue movies, they always hold you long enough to matter, not long enough to believe. What’s the due, what’s the air, what’s the poison reference in the letter left on the credenza with familiar bits of pottery and glass arranged in somewhat mysterious patterns.
Omitted signals carry their insolence before them like the unencoded manuscript you hold before you, as if no other. Here in the weakening gloom, where the sun might not rise again, refuse and offal smoking on the horizontal penetration, names left on the night moves would not include you in their declinations to the opposite. It’s the Non. Welcome to the Non. Here where there is a message on the floor you can’t quite read, it’s somewhat out of focus, a photograph which was a mistake, or was it? Get at the raspy dude, hold his anchors out of sight on the morning after what. What described your day along the curving road through the mountains down into the sloping valleys rolling their peachfuzz ocean floors from long ago, long enough that no one remembers when it was, giant trucks rolling around the tiny blacktop roads to nowhere, this is the air we were.
The air begins to clog into beachside parking lots with wooden boats on their sides; it’s the image of a nostalgia for what never was, for the mystery in its agony of repetition and disuse, in its finality of indifference from the skies which open into darkness and their own readiness to receive the incoming signals, a psychic enterprise which is less an image than it is a tendency to refuse use or pity as the days climb into their own particular nothingness. Here is a sign. A post driven into the ground with huge hammers, split at the top and furry on the edges from the dull saw which reduced it from a tree into this blunted anchor for the heavens.
No darker than not, the Non is its own record of history, it’s own determination to be real. A solipsist dream of floating in the darkness without any ropes or shelves to put your clothes onto, an empty ark of covenance and disrepair; too busy to look back, you ramble in your discourse like someone who’s just learned the language and doesn’t know what to say with it. Like, “duh.” Go on, you think, this is only the beginning and you might eventually be surprised, at least you hope so.
“Wah in the putty tate” goes the reggae voice in the other room. Boom-boom on the bass floor, a guy playing a fish with gaping scales. “Wah in the putty tate,” and comes right back on you in its’ own time, measured by the length of the time between silences, rhythm and the slinking asides you’d hold onto again and again, gasping for air, tie your rope to the stars, sly in the pooti-wah, cool in the putty tate. Fool in the remiss outer, school in the heading against which the foot ramble upwards in a new kick to your ass, blam! Hears the single tone realigns the stars their own waves begin and end in your fingertips, as if your skin separated you from anything at all, least of which impinges on your finality.
This’d harf no single doubt but classed and plussed within schemers, at their own agenda wrapt and fallen, in skein forms the lingering tides rushing again and again at the fordune, held down by the sticky beachgrass into mountains of sand piled against the continent, as if holding it together by the balls and fountains, clean wisps of delight remembered darkness in the ether room encoded again you hear the word bleep-bleep on the wand of your own fingers…
“I don’t remember,” he cries, forgetting even the question at hand. Doorstop wrinkles, no slacks on the floor, putative strength heals the hearer longer now than not. Playing attention has them standing stiff and rude at their tangled-wire barriers to thought which is this, this agony and passitude you’d invented to get around the farmers. Drought in the anchoring dunes, a flat on the sinking repetitions of the day after tomorrow, “I do not know,” and goes on into the later sections of the psalter, horse and rider clinging together to the song, ca-ching, symbol and clang, platter and bong the looser claims for inattention recall you to doubt itself into which you plunge ceaselessly a punter in the mists of the game-ball thrown against the door, hearing heaving this singular dusk as it rises riding outward the nomenclature of the song itself is no meter but the clamor of the holding tanks and spasms, loose to the night you called it now and then, but cleared the door easily leaping over all the furniture into the skin, into the now and then the Non at its own destiny remembering all the words you know at once. Spliff.