Thomas Lowe Taylor -- SYNTAXIN

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…an instance or manifestation of an instance of syntax use or disuse in compelling the sentence forward into the open space of the ‘passing beyond’; a space itself not unlike the release after orgasm, for after all if the sentence fails to achieve release then it has failed in its mission to penetrate into the unknown, and so forth. Syntax rides the e-motive flow of the sentence, it lives within its sentence as ‘time served’ both in its registration of timeliness (is it on time or late?)(is it in time or not?). A syntaxin would be a unit of application, and so the flow of a sentence and its syntax can be separated and compared in relation to their relative contributions to the thing itself.

The utterance in its totality is felt or imagined as a need, and the free registration of units separated by commas, the go-comma-go school of thought, (in which) each unit operates in terms of its evocations and rhythms and specific gravities of spine and tingle, and thus accumulates or empties itself of energy, of ‘juice’. “Omara of ringing juices I receive you in the solace of my tempos” is a line that grows and accumulates from the inside out and leaves you ready in the next increment to rebound from that flashpoint surrounded by a single comma, if such can be, to feint and dance toward the wall, like Buckaroo Banzai accelerating into the seventh dimension. Wham, and you’re in.

So syntax, with its inert nouns and explosive verbs makes the enterprise akin to stuffing the flintlock, powder first and the alchemical ball of lead going in last, bang at the target, it’s all zen and tantra enough to encode your responses into a mask or a noon…. A structural underpinning for carrying an object, for mounting a rhythm or an association, or for countering and emptying, for in conscious apprehension of lingo dingo, there are structures which fill and structures which empty, syntaxes if you will. As nature abhors a vacuum, the unconscious will rush to fill the empty structure with an energy of its own, why ‘a sentence is in fact a transfer of energy’. A symphony of apprehensions.

Structures which fill become the fuel or expectation of response in what follows. What precedes has something to do with what follows, jumping included. It’s a wild melee of instant and flail, like drowning, or nearly so, for the survival or the success of the sentence in ‘getting you there’ is an addictive sensation which must be repeated successively and differently into infinity to give image to the universe which it pretends to join, impelled by its structure, identity and specific content, a specific abstract. The quality of info presented into the empty structure is like dream overflow, what’s on top boils over the edge and into the field of vision, and gives you a clue about how to respond to an interactive structure, as hopefully each reader encounters his/her own poem by the nature of what is put forth in the instances of space provided. ‘Instanter’, eh?

A tide asided makes recluse and simple the destiny of the hours in their own repute made in significant portions as yield the numen of her identity within your own heart as the star and target of the mode itself reclining you into doubt from passion’s discord made internal infernal sighs you clear the air again against your will from this point forward, how I hear you meaning no subject too intense to be mentioned nor exampled thus and so which cleans the terms of their own weight like shadows in the theater of the real, you hold assigned into your terminals where you wait like an assassin for the path to crawl you forward hinging onto your ‘self’ as an illusion or a shadow toward which you slide and scramble at the target of your identity, the slight light slip in the wall at the end of the tunnel you dive through and wham! Open space presides outside your realm and manor, er, manner, how she squirms and sighs your name inside the day ahead in its own demeanor, the here and now of dusk reigning calm supreme with-holding out your hand again she claps at the sound of no sound at all in the one hand clasping your silence and stringing your forward into the white light emanating from the side aside….

It’s a decoration of its own substances. So if anything is the sum of all you can bring to it, then each word is a syntax of its own dimensions in reference to its past and its future as well indicating neither time nor space but both together. The calm point of focus. And so as consciousness and spirit collide in the dictionary to make a more current view, it would hold that the point of the line is to penetrate the spirit which lies outside the sentence, to make ‘time served’ add to the collection, rather than lie inert or nullify the job at hand. In hand.

Renewal is the hopeless task of the sentence imbedded deep within its syntax, fighting perhaps to get out and scream ahead into the wilderness where there are no intentions to hold it back and fewer expectations for what it might intend. The resulting tension impels it forward toward a paragraph, but that, too is another destiny or destination, what ever you will, and leads ultimately to the composition. The inhabitants of word and line are drawn forward by the syntax of the moment of composition in which your hand is free and you are taken in by the force before you, leaning as you are into the light streaming from your hands and onto the plane of attention, here is where you interact with the code of your own behaviors and find clarity inclined to present itself for a sign of acceptance into the specific abstract you intend to inhabit. A choice is made, then given.

Syntax has its own attractions and accumulations of energy. It’s as if the flow and complexity of language in the units themselves had another task, and all that syntax wishes is to be complete(d and to be in a position to make the next event come into being, as it were. The vehicle of interaction of syntax and lingo would be the alchemy of the quest itself, the magic of the process which arises from emptiness and nothingness and becomes an identification with the one. Two become one, and give meaning into the utterance as a release and an eloquence, a specification and an abstract at the same instant, and then moves on, becomes another factor in the progress of the heart to its flesh, to its passion.

All this lies against consciousness, which is continuous and unbroken, as a warp and woof of occasioned wave forms of energy which themselves ride across attention’s screen in a harmony of interactions and crossings which imply the music which accompanies like an undercurrent, or a subtext. It gives a pleasure to the forehead, where consciousness opens out to see what’s there, third eye blinking like the red hand at the crosswalk, and then yanks you forward curling and arching into an open space, a beyond one has passed into, and the sentence calls it ‘truth’ or ‘destiny’ or perhaps only ‘what was said.’