Thomas Lowe Taylor -- STILL

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Be still, no flutter out would palm insignificant toners to what is still storied to all within hearing at least, how you were the first among them to amount to anything a hill of beans was another sign, what you are still among them one is not after the other in color, no signing out is not a name enough for now, is still his own loco operandis, you might say, is still no other than that, you know, but heading out is not the moon any more, it is holding another song out in the wildness, is his eye-soup yours enough but a realer still still is his enough, or would soup it out in songs or another meatier tube was still a recall'd outer's other; and in moto-acrimony, his was still a divorce from the real and not no jellyfish was manufactured soon enough for that! Loots palm was stiller kept afar "in tribute" was cast or firmed other was in his own best interests a pause that refreshed, and in the calmer days ahead, you are still there still, not dismissed from the flame of actions, or your own, this was smithed down into something plain, I mean, I'd have jumped for it.

Soon enough, I'd said, it's going to be one against the other from what you are against the money and the for instances. Too demanding to be dismissed as a waste of time, since time is of no consequence, but rather a rhythm against one's self, as it is perceived. Or too reclusive in the other, as for what it is "in its own time", and within those distinctions you are less proud than fanciful, less diminished than decided.

As you are here in color, there is no other "perhaps" to it, capitals and all are reminded from your own distances, of no other remarking down across the caught-up-time. It was here in the patterning of whatever that you were bent against cause in the midst of your own plenty, and in reminiscence battered like a piece of fish, dipped in the scrolling line, and then tossed aside with the french fries, still woolen and warm.

You were the remarkers on the bench, did they wear shoes?

I spent outer days within palming. This was an air to be remembered, the pole white scatters of light made again and again, it is without rhythm, buttressed accolades are swept aside, made outer by the famine, by the end of time, by all that sweeps us aside as unimportant decorations on the way to market to what is happening here and there the same. What is one man's lockout is another's burning tide.

It is no assai into forgiveness, but a random poke at the sign of the times, what's hat to outer, but made within these colors of the say, clearer here than in not; but you are made again, and still grasp at what is plain flux. Flossed but not a sigh aside, you remember what was your own biting familiarity. Sacrificial sentences, thrown at the tube and then punched away.

This is the still. From former aliens, no doubt, and holding infirm in from here to that, you are a skiller in remote; a hesitation from allowable essentials; a plumer in his skein, but wallowed still you are one in side another hears you say your name aloud at fortune's tempos flood astern, yo mark. It's a cool day again, in these lessons made plain, utter, a mark, a solid shot to the temples not so much electroshock therapy but a good idea in its infancy, body states imaged in sentence structures, and ahoy to shout again no tidal elocution made ferment by some other in your skin.

What's weeded kill remarks to history from one angle or another--these hours are special perhaps in their innocence of what shall follow, or in their ignorance--are they so differently made or does the shadow of grace penetrate word choice? You'd spelled apart some other heresy of the light; markers were still strewn from the aftershocks of psychical disturbances in the cosmos, or a bad headache, still the sentence structure penetrated its own rhythm of suggestiveness and promise, and left conclusion for hearsay at the same time the word heresy substitutes overtone-like, what's foment there to skill out even your own recitation?

Moved, then, by what's climate to doubt's anchor, your own piety still'd within suggestion, or some meditative thrill overheard at the party like your own voice on the answering machine, not quite real enough to be disturbing, just like a recording.... This ought to be the stiller realm within speech, where suggestion is a retrieved presence; or delight's own propriety made eloquent by each running into the other headlong rush and clamor. Such is the partition of elements to their own distinction, such is the elongation of absolutes in the mind of the donor. Plasm spasm, more to the left than rote demeanor.

Even vilified. As comes about, then, to newer reminders, are the other signs of intelligence within yourself, a pressure to comparison which becalms word-choice into a parameter or a striation of doubt which itself is a language to recognize in the midst of movement, how it is. This might even call out, or be a structure of will, of intent. You are the sole artifact of the witnessing. Beyond your own artifact, there is the more solid presence of what is there for no particular reason.

Today is a measure of nouns in place, willing to serve, detained by the paragraph at large as well as the sentience of their circumstances, they are still monopresences, clusters of intensity focused on their verb; held as it is at bay by the timing of the syntactual presuppositions, the entire enterprise winds into a moment of hesitation, then loops outward snakelike into lighted psalms within which conclusion arrives at a willing take, at a fortunate identification, at a now.

Vocal entities rewind outer doubts are here and there rescinded utterances do not recall you to anything now and then, but otherwise still you incensed recitations recall no outer skill no reminding out of closured forms no recall forming in the heat of something massed to lights or others out frosted filo-moves heatered doubt his secrets force denial the last righted edge within which no pressure to your own forgetfulness indicates powers beyond the group winding outer film his eager lights no doom reveal them after a corner'd deal no beaters fringe you puts pouts no dusker in his whims this leases in what's held.

Reef of splinter, there is a position to remit, and what's a holder in its' lien is no basted presence but some other in its' own remission from the light, where it is not a holder in relief but a beater in the settlers after dark.

Portland Oregon
12.26.91