Saturday, March 24, 2007

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- SLASH AND BURN POETICS


Who controls language controls control

Vincent wrote, ‘you have broken the sentence’. Like a virgin. The broken sentence meanders through its own leadership across the page strewing itself among its processes, the meaning of which, you might say, are its altruisms and its intent, even as it rolls through its structureless & wandering length deliberately yet hopelessly entangled in what it is passing through, itself really, coming out upon an end which is not necessarily described in the process, the process being both medium and message. How can you not, then, allow it access to the reaches from which you cannot defend or deny yourself the conviction or experience or the act itself remunerating your exchange. A sentence is in fact an exchange of energy, at least in its familiar strategy of definition and action complacently encased within the form of its structure.
At word and sign, we contract-out into the cosmic element with some destiny or reproduction intent in the forward seeming allowance of our acts themselves. However what has no end but continually drives us forward by means of punctuation or perhaps word choice arrives at an action which draws energy out from the receiver, not a filling up with fuel as might take place with a more mechanical formula. That ‘matter is neither created nor destroyed’ might be tested inside this model in the sense that provoking an organism into filling in an otherwise blank form, that is, that which is provided, would involve ‘making something out of nothing’ or ‘drawing from the void’. Every thing comes from the void, in violation of the laws with which we are familiar, which govern our interactions and meditations as if there were some balancing input and output in an equation of compensation and balance as the transcendentalists comment, proficiently enough to have outlasted the usefulness of its engines and displacements away from consent or promotion of an absolute, so that even the absolute itself loses some of its totality in favor of an unremitting inflexibility which belies the flow of the sentence unwinding around its topic and center with suggestion and refinement of distinct points of contact and equally distinct momentos of emptiness…
Eliminating the transient sentence in favor of one that is translucency, to traduct internalized messaging within its style, a cellular microscopy undiluted among its selves from which a subtextual meaning is inherent in the structure of the energy movement forward or backward across the term or channel of the flow of what comes ‘through’ the agent or writer. Any slacker of attention generates a paranoia of disattachment allowing the inevitability of control to slip from the end of the process in the distributor into an energy restoration of definition within the process itself, leaving the sentence intact in its own dynamic and kindling a kind of mimetic, muscular penetration into the heart of darkness where matter itself originates by means of withdrawal and survival. Nor obfuscate calm in its own dimension, a tactical estate for the regenerate gesture met in its realm of suggestion and intent as a focus of the procedural into a definite which is then evacuated in favor of a more potential eloquence and provide the ammunition for an assault on the structure which carries it. This message will destruct upon completion.

So memory and intent are both unwilling contributors to the sentence which has begun in its innocence and then moved beyond calculation into a structureless realm which meanders as the stream does through that which resists its energy, finding safe harbor in the nature of its own completion irrespective of that which it carries, as if the load itself were tarrying in the hold, waiting for the sun to shine properly to ensure the character of its disillusion inherent in the passage it has undertaken from an unspoken promise to the fallacy of its conclusions which only energize the soul in its passage through the wind and fog of the paragraph, resulting, finally, in an energy which has been neither diminished nor refreshed, but which seems upon its arrival not to have had anything ‘in mind’ at all but which responded, rather, to its need for existence upon the intent of the speech to be spoken, the speaker to have been implied and furthered beyond what was contained in the medium’s message itself and which finally contradicts the rules by which it operates and functions in a denial of containment. The word gets free.
There’s nothing worse than a word which has lost its way, abandoned its context and refused the energy of its potential relief within a temporary structure of some kind which can at least allow it to morph into a predicament of its own making. The rest comes to get it, cannot permit a meandering soul to exist in an unmentionable vice of detachment and disenfranchisement from a whole which surrounds its essence-within-definition. The rock is not undisturbed in its precarious balance, but rather inhibits itself by its placement from falling out of the picture and onto the next page where it might not really belong nor even feel comfortable, enshrined at the top of its subject matter and its minions in the parade of times and spaces surrounding process like unwilling participants -- really more like the frame around which the image balances and withers under the influence if its own time, and not the other way around.
What is one to do in a definition without structure but look inside it for what has been omitted in its progress from here to there, strategies of transmission lurking in the form of the question itself draw you forward into the realm of the disestablished possibilities which themselves are the fodder and plutonium for light itself which dispenses purely from the froth of the canyon you’ve entered foolishly unprepared for disuse and panoply, not used to the mark of the maiden on your forehead burning slowly from the inside out into an illumination which goes before you like a flashlight drilled into your forehead with a solar battery on the baseball cap riding atop it as an identity or a delayed publication in the world library of aphorisms and other elusive fragmenta, hai-ku destinations at the end of the line, wha?
You arrive at the end of the sentence at the beginning of the next effusive expulsion which is fueled by the void of its own crossover, crosses which burn at the edge of the field of fission which are themselves destinations and results thrown in the face of what cannot be defined yet which itself demands and creates the conditions for its own radical survival in the face of inevitable control from outside the sphere of action in which the witness believes in his own fact and center but from which he or she is denied entry by the very tools with which he or she sought entry, a denial which is both fruitful and empty, allowing us to see within a machinery of our own making that which is both cause and sentry, passion and recluse, shadow and fact of our sentimental existence. (TLT)



The Processes of Beauty


Beginning always in the same place, the dialog proceeds by fits and starts into an impressive though brief array of contact and resonance, and reactive space reduces the field of vision within the specific confluence of acts. Any gesture speaks, and within the forms of speech, specific personalities in motion are also drawn between the polls of form and sign.
Simpler however are the arts of practice, patience and sign. No maintenance is necessary to the practices of recall, for instance, as distinctions arise before the moments of decision to arouse what is curious within sensibility and discourse toward what is also new. The dream inhabits not figures or designs, but structures of energy wherein acts resolve.
So it is in release and pressure toward completion that beauty is drawn outward in the moment of pursuit or pleasure, and where we find the body sleeping in its disguise of facts, proper registration prefers to see in what is there the boundaries of chance resolved by simpler resolutions: ease. Of course, singular meditation refers to what is there, and the assumptions proper to beginnings are always present, though the familiar tokens resist the foolish claim of possession: song pertains to choice, perhaps, though the assurances of style are also described in the circumstances of the line.
Naming, then, improves what is difficult. The personal realm is still described in style; or the elegant pursuit of alterations of the perform betray, almost, the secrets of motion relevant to the final arrangements of passage. Surely one is drawn aside, and the light of events pursues thought.
Declamation recalls vocabulary within voice, and the centers of consciousness fill the diagram without conflict, just as the eye is always alert before the mind’s own sensations alert the organism to defensive array. The speed of events permits some error along the way: perhaps the door is always open, but surely the distinctions we make arise from somewhere; language and the forms of speech differ, as acultural visions organize in directions unsought, perfect trails resisting the names of strangers, just as the hyperbolic stance pertains. In no decoration, then, but ling distances between words when even speech is rushed through the formalities of choice.
Abstract conclusions precede thought: the eye is that quick. Speech recreates the one moment of release inherent in relationship. It is not the other way around.
Ecstasy, then: the dance of light is both pursuit and motive, where a future resides first in flat design, in comparison and diction, in the body’s quick charms for power. Or does the rule prefer to sleep where challenge pretends to rest alert beyond the open scores of others. There is the dialog reversed in motive first to other sharper scenes. There is “image,” the mind’s imitation of the eye, in conceptual strategies reversed or positioned within the framework of what is done. Or the theoretical. There are designs, or one would make them in his meditations in order to survive. The thin edge of perception allows adjustment: we pursue our own mysteries exclusive even of our knowing, though simpler assumptions are more manageable. We might begin again tomorrow, but space persists, the sameness of the signs is disruptive.
So tension and contact relate the procedural to its claims for completion. The more spaces there are to fill in a conceptual design, then, the more perfect it is, filled out, perhaps, with the diagrammatic eloquence which constitutes a release of pressure: tactics.
The conceptual act is also a physical exertion. Our distinctions lapse too easily toward the contradictory other. Could we arouse these signs pretentiously, there would comfort becalm the sensory array in eases left unknown. But the body’s life is perfect, we insist, it is our own, and no defenses arrive as needed. The critical realm is neither a response nor an arousal of the other in our movements: the same leap into the same water. Even drama is sincere.
No, they sing together, even separately. Complaints arrive on cue, the organism pretends reaction, and solitary states review unwilling declarations of opposition with ease.
Or is the moment of the grounding of the idea itself too separate to allow rendition? Pervasive and obscure, a language comes along between the assumptions, resonant and precise. Where style belongs to time, the spacious dogma resists. Intense, but joined again to proper dialogs, swimming down the line and never dropping off to sleep. At last the day arrives, and what was there before is there again, the work.
Of course correction is participation.
Passage and invitation. The invisible but distinct reminders that we have changed. Without persistence we might collapse, and in the world become ourselves, clothed as it were in the disguises we have avoided so skillfully and in perpetual conjunction, encircled, withdrawn or closed, the signs are made and disallowed, the closed center of speech and silence, newer and profound. How is one to respond?
We might recall our own voices, left to speak in another darkened room, where smaller airs recall our other moods with frightening rushes of other faces cast between our lesser worlds. But then the calm flow of movement contains an image in its restless flux of acts. Could they be better? Or are there times to move and times to rest even in the absolute voids of space. A goal would resist all but formulation, a singular release of doubt which permits functioning to continue its flat and even heartbeat, breath upon breath, unperformed and dreamed, signals where we might begin, succinct and unfamiliar, this vocabulary of light returns and holds to the organization of ideas and goes between the referent s and into color. A speech is described more simply where collective argument ceases to be heard, the drum of trance and sign, continuing to be the same voice drawn outer without these rhythms of abstraction.
But the rest is allowed, encouraged, practiced. And is there sincerity in not belonging there or there, but hoisted out, the voice begins and goes along to hold the beautiful before the eye as if some perfect charge were laid between the eyes, diagram and sign, even before vocabularies resist their formulation. And there’s the question: are these organized gestures more than that evolutionary commonplace we accept too easily, or is there another higher dogma even as restrictive and into which we cast prejudice, encouraged by the energies of a simpler and more critical description of processes. In the static realm there is neither peace nor silence, this “cessation of thought.” There is the language practiced by decorum or ease, but left along the way6 like some simpler engine, whre the children remind us of the mysteries inherent or latent, specific signing of the invisible, we all know that.
But pronouns differ. Beauty holds alone, and perhaps that is its failure to become the norm, a mundane and exclusive property left along the way, an afterthought. Left between designs, an imperfect though unimpeachable conclusion, like the meanderings of conversation which are so specific to storytellers, nothing is wasted, and hardly are we moved than left alone within the same.
Calling out along some simpler rushing-out, these days resemble a destiny where one is sought, focal, shined out, given image and form and boundary. The functional lapse of description and easing in to doubt, a resistance or pursuit of the formular in disguise. The views we learn are too solitary to become perfect; one would come to no resemblance or recall but describe his acts with words which are already known, and then begin again to fall apart, the future comes again and rests to outer signs collapsed. Structures of discursive judgment are always simpler than their origins, you we must speak before the audience, left to share our leanings privately or called to dreaming in the center of our intensities, no game but following these specific confidences, alert and told, into another definition. It is too simple to become abstract, and yet the work is there, roof, floor, window, the house, its lesson and learning, anf finally, filling in the space completely, held to account for what is new by signing a name and drawing aside to recognize the claims that have been made for what they are, the boundaries of the choice we made, a foolish conjunction of head and tail, the straight lines of thought interrupted by arrogance and pushed along between our moments of conviction. Love resists the claim and pushes outer into year and sign. We move again.


However much we decline attention, the abstract-theoretical is personal, and the tenses of the language describe body states more perfectly than does our insistence on detail. Even the shadow completes the double. But abstraction is too precise, denies the very arts of attention from which it is derived, we cannot travel in straight lines or circles, but only come to music where it lasts, and in that persistence allow ourselves the luxury of commitment. Our voices calling out or driving in, no distinction. The marks are hollow, the eye resists simplification, where “art” is executed by men or women or neither, to both, together. The play of types is simpler still, and the initiative we give to the whole is newer still, a beginning to be the same across lines and properties which parts the waves too simply to be seen. This avoidance of the peculiar, or its opposite, infatuation, is too extreme to be complete.
Newer positions resound, that much is clear in the rush of enthusiasm for the accidental which, really underscores the mundane pressure of the abstract into its details. The job is done. And lying through the categories, flat perhaps, the body of thought resists its claims and perpetrations. We perform the mask too willingly, or willfully, the pun allows exactness. And roles are drawn forgetting how the dream arrives or when the net was woven from some foreign strains and lapses in the act. That the beauty is illusion calls us back and lingers at the edges of the resolute description again and yet without the mood we might describe as new. Courtship or limitation is too simple to continue. And yet complexity won’t belong again to what we are. Never to know! But that’s too easy, graphed, charted, signed and marked, the day’s allowances for the good, the true and the beautiful. They are the same. And without duality, the rest resounds, spins.
The world in its opposites, too soon to begin without commitment: trusting to what is there already, some time returns and clears the air for work, at last we come to the edges drawn against the concept, thrown aside by failure or persistence where error itself defines the sign of what is seen for its value in the whole. Day declares, arrest and see, or flow these contraries through the net to determine what remains and where the accrual rests, resists, poetry allows the union of strengths to come to resist within the sign: your masks and terms align throughout the moods of what is known, and what is not is not. That much is easy: operating through what is there, or using conceptual knots as tools, the remainder is drawn like energy rather than problem, and the vocabulary rises into being on command, the specific thoughts arrive like light or knowing, there is a difference in where we go and how we stay the same.
Perhaps examples suffice to strengths or weakness itself. Any design is marked and implemented, though the rhythms of the trance suspend the air between words with smoke and noise. Perpetual disintegration and renewal; but the voices are not new, are not even voices, distance declares. In speech we come to see the distance. In act we lose the way, retreat, collapse, and sign again for help, for food, for air, and failing that, die and cool the ground with seasons or draw along the day like peculiar turtles, snapping at reflex rather than target, smoothing the distances between the lines with a strictly conceptual ease, close and polished by our habitual disregard of what is so familiar and mysterious: or works.
It is the edifice itself which is so peculiar, not its failure, for that is where we are revived. No, the edificial itself is beyond our grasp because we have made it through too much too soon and far too easily for any scars to show. Horse and rider, and in between, the act, going around the day like rest or posture, thriving on imposition or chance or calculation. And then professional. But there is no claim here, only a territory, and living in the center of the sign, another loop recalls us to our moods and elevations; in the unusual clarity of beginnings and announcements, arbitration of the absolute by referees of the human, separate and unique improvateurs of life’s own distinctness, visible concepts, clothed, as it were, by human form.
We might resist, and do, for that seems proper, gathering waves, leaping forward over difficult shortcuts, omissions of neglect and convenience, simplifications of doubt rejecting easier trails and filling in the conceptual holes without grace or knowledge, acting the design without respect for the traces of failure inherent in the whole, for it is neither static nor complete nor whole at all, but response and claim where none was given. Mute perhaps, the wise and fortunate modification of the absolute which permits the rest to hold its marks without permission but gather in to senses moved in larger signs and finally left alone. Alive, we are the same, alive. Beyond that, the assumptions break away like attributes or impositions. Release by simpler tones or calls in other modes: the ears twitch and flicker, the eyes roll back, suspended: an attentive grace to what is new. But what is easy is also what is beautiful, but what is? Color, perhaps, or only blue and yellow, and what of it? Simply, to go on, and working that as a sharper turf, we grow these tentacles of composition under a specific glass, and gaze around before we shout, the trees and woods. Crawling about, glandular simplicities too easily explained to be true, too true to lead anywhere, a vocable chart responds to charm the eye; even what is mute recalls us to these lesser realms.
But the absolute is not without remission, and that is an animl charm, a construction, then, and drones these days are filled with work, and filling out their dreams too easily for doubt, or pressing out their claims for doubt itself, a circular and unresponsive chart, cold to some infirmity and laid before our senses like a self, and like a body, drawn along the way by will itself, another diagram of action, “loomed her hand is wove.”
You might protest the form of the dialog has driven in upon the mind, it’s hard to read again where the assumptions haven’t yet been granted their luxuries of existence. The drawings on the floor are out of place, we think. We think. And acts beyond their call are never neat nor even particularly important. But we do persist. And through these signs of particular cleverness, the flaw, come between the specific intensities of resistance, another charm allows the rest its leisure.
Or is it even healthy? Release, perhaps, is handy. That. But the presence itself is contrary, contradictory, different. What are they growing over there; hidden in the woods the houses rest on thickened poles, the ground is wet, and dreaming life aloud, we come to love or will or pleasure only to be revived, only to sustain the motions of consciousness, forever “art” and uninitiated.
Or is it even man and women left alone regenerate the races of the world. Now there is nothing left over, there is nothing left over at all, but drawn aside for lesser drawings, sustained attention retains the middle, drives the center, calls the ideal perfect and mocks the other without power at all, calls its bluff and struggles out. Assumptions have been made because the necessity was interrupted. Silences. The days are left together, month, year, the season of the year before, and quietly.
And bare sufficiency into the main and flowing channel of conscious movement, the actual relapses of form, renewed or gathered in some humility and ignorance, but hardly respectful. We ask. But being thorough, there are no holes really in what we ask or in what we say. The music comes between the signs, the ear and eye have differing times and resonances, and in what coheres, a syncopation to thought which sees events in double time. The conceptual psychology gives way to acts just as acts themselves return us to what we are and to the ground of our own resistance to what we are as growth as tropistic clutch and glimmer, a sustaining warms is fostered in these moments of allowance and pity. Whatever color the skies are, they are still there, and they still are.
And though we might recall our own designs, then again we ask, dissatisfied with answering, more pleased in finding the simplicities of ease and dance and music left within the circles of discourse. Proper to the act, we follow out and hold the causes back to back, muted by what is seen, the familiar immensity always turned around to show us who we really are, out of question, out of insistence, out of reality, clamoring indistinctly at our selves for reassurance, and left alone to make the whole resemble what it already is. And there is some challenge there, to recreate the beginning in being simple. The rest goes by, goes down, stays. And left alone, the human image unsustained, curious, reflex and sign, already beginning to be the same.

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- mas menos


there's a sufi concept, faqd wajd, which translates as "loss gain". not a
sequence, no cause and effect, rather one thing
. JL

Deluxe, or not at all, knot-a-tall. Wasn’t it ‘too much of not enough for too many’? That was it, something like an unmentionable or a faxis suspended over the ruminant stranger’s sword of whoever it was, a swinging pendulum-style over the taut underbelly of the forgotten name. Knocks us gardens, noxious guard-ins. The loop astir in the mind’s willingness to defeat itself in the name of wonder, how you said goodbye in the absented wilderness of the heart’s heat, as a door closed and another one opened. But that’s the due, you sink. A hoarse whisper in the night’s belonging. I’d said not, or knot. O, you again.
Her lanks have suddened, then collapse, as this is the known in the face of the unknown, a confrontational speech that garners its collapse at nark or settle. You’d spent historic alleys their own destiny was a word chosen among all the possible choices, but then, this is the hour of which we have spoken, silently watching the extinct make its allowable presence. “Not me!” you quip in a herald or mission to the left. That’s a grain stem in your hand, not my flower flowing sticky green slime. It’d be romance in another second, but you don’t remember. Something has been taken from me.
Call me a shithead if it makes you feel better, it surely does nothing for me. It’s the age of the done, of the non. Subtraction spells the way ahead where ‘what it is’ is set against ‘what you have’ or ‘what you see.’ I always think ‘draconian’ means ‘of draco,’ whatever the fuck that is… maybe the name of a meat cutter with blue rubber gloves on to hide his swollen hands from the distinctive light that bears down on your eyeball when you dance at the moon, song in hand, or hand-in-song. A later suck, a ladder stuck, lacquer made visible from a spray can in your eye a mother at her mark. A monkey at his muck. Your flag smothers.
Flames at line. Fluxus distinguado called non-portendo--Do Not Stick (inhere, in-here). As word choice flattens contention into a game of darts where ‘the center does not hold.’ You fly off. Commercial reloader falls into the scene, like science. That might be a clue to the Non, where climate and relinquisher scions participle the dream then flit. Against what “you have nothing to say” reclaims the hour from its empty shatter, climax of decibel warmth, of hinky scans which fall too short and funk the told at its shelter.
The Anthracite Coalition seeks your approval formally interning election privileges into the market strength of its unspoken design in the face of immortality positioned from a distance of more than you can imagine delicting some pointal scrum refluxus denoted hours in her face a smile’s mile and terminal from the locus demonstratus calls all overboard in the night’s Moonie declamations, in their neatly pressed suits, walking the streets of Missoula, Montana, on a summer’s day a long long time ago they imagined the world saved in mass marriages and big-city newspapers purchased for ad-space revenues which exceeded mass inclinations to delivery and suspicion from their twin afflictions of wait and walk.
Eyed not song or name. Loose positives make a hash of indigent warriors as they leave the field of attention to the followers and their ‘money in hand’ distinctions like gloves or woolen underwear on a summer’s day another cliché makes your middle mad a song or dance unleavened bread the tumor on the mouth clasping and loosening its grasp on the nipple of choice like a beckoning or a fever spreading across the lighter hues in their own time and measure.
Too. Not a shower or a hack. Nor flavor in respite the august warrior in demento carries the day’s risks within tactics for survival of that which, and these are more settled than less monitored inside the rhythm of what’s been acrimonious nor penetrated, like, stuck-like and then omiss, furthered lines are recollect or scrum, thence or doubled into a subtextual how-to of one’s linearity in dispute, challenged by the collectors from one’s nether self, a fossil persona which elides and makes other plans after a day like this.
Yoddle a fondle in yr handle pokes the candle into ear’s waxy depths of orange and light brown diminishing hearing to a fuzzy node held it longer and longer each way descending into what you wanted to indicate as the meaning of your life found in the passion you subsumed into the act itself like some smothering of intent or a redirection of purpose and its subservient stations of intent was really a clearing of the throat or of the air which preceded something profound, a matter, a memento, a form of light descending from source and calm as less is more depending on context of volume of shout and scream an unrelenting dark without echo. You dig? Valleys of hillocks with healthy plants stretching into their budded smoke and charm, into the removal of dust from the atmosphere resounding, the hissing, swooshing silent sound of one hand clapping its applause and demeanor in this silence of the wound, seas crashing boulder to sand to dust against the tides moving one on one into the salience of a passionate space you might remember from your youth as a wonder and a fear at the same instance of registration and collapse as fast as you can go now and then deciding not to presume or claim the seasons in their own passage.
Summer rain pounds the roof and skylight, bending the plants lighted by the desk lamp outside the window where the typer sits and claims his part of the moment with the steady click click of the keyboard, what we once heard as the clatter of the writing machine when it was a mechanical glow under the hand of the driven. How it swept away the silence it permitted to inhabit the moment without speech, how the flow of the word-things gained and flowed into some other space besides the page itself in its rectangular definition of what was said and the unspoken associations which kept the hands moving underneath the lighted space in which attention was focused onto a plane of attention indescribably invisible yet palpable to the process underway in the extension of one single line from its beginning into the darkness surrounding the planet from which it was driven, pounding out into emptiness like an allocation of doubt which was not yet infirm nor empty but which continued existence itself like a cartoon of a debauchery of intents and purposes.
Your own hoses, stacked and circled by the corner of the house, an impetuous potential of movement likened to a steed or motor, merely a turning of the switch from left to right makes the matter move and flow over the mealy surface of the dirt around the house itself punctuated by plants which glow and blossom and thrust into an uncaring air which itself is nourishment and calm in the specificity of process itself, liking what you do, that is, endeavoring at what you mean and yet continuing in what you are into the salience of the passage itself, a demeanor and palm, a form and a silence, an attitude and a motion into an unknown future which lies at the end of the line when it turns and starts back over again moving from left to right one speck at a time, peck pecking itself into the presence of your mind and attention and caring as a continuing and a prayer.
This is the hour of beginnings and of accumulation of less into more.
This is the locale of the spirit in its intention to be felt and known.

Abstain the seaweed pearls and gems on strings which latch around the neck and bring you into attending and presuming to be real enough to claim a color as your own identification within purposes or acts, to become the one you are in shim and whammy, likening some suggestion to resolve and distribution from the less into the many, from the absent into the real-enough and its consequent resistances. This’d eke your potentials from their surfaces into this eloquent gloom we all inhabit now and another, simplifications of what was once elegant and attractive down, down into a simplification and a moan. A collar phones and flails you into someone else you don’t remember. As what is aloud is also spoke. As if no master forced the action to continue but let and then let again in some permission to be strange or other, as if no matter formed the mission to resolve but said and said some more allowances are flowed and surfaced into seeming or like an inattention in reserve.
Piano tuna on the floor whipping and swirling in a quest for air, under water underneath your feet are stuck on the surface not moving but make the song a shout and hollow, our hearts woven together like a glue or fountain, a pulsing recollection of origin and throng. Otto Didact drives his car in second gear, marks the streets with pools of yellow slime and heads out into a wilderness of his own invent, a sullen hero on the plain of inattention where the cactus sticks your thumb and forefinger into the pie and halts along the way. Let me know if you get this, I mean if you receive, that’s better than not at all in the hallway smothering small affirmations under your arms where it smells rotten and gets better the next day when you dance and sing on the sunlit portico, a metal mental or a crumby loon. Score the surface with these glib wanderings and know that inside the surface itself is another form you might not have imagined in your own time and reason.
Ants clear the floor of the last reams of poem and song, scuttling up and down the hillside by the back door with their millions of legs and eyes and hearts if they have any and the queen herself inside in the dark squatting out eggs one after the other, a tiny chicken in the moonlight sacked and ruined. This desert silence is the womb of other personalities you have now invented to infer the lack of one into the absence of another, a smooth rock held under the tongue to prevent speech at all costs holding your tongue from flicking out into his eye and removing all vision from the life of the poet. Who shall remain nameless. A description and a claim. A foment and a quandary, a new line outside the document which carries indecision with it into some new realm of description, that’s the slice and pimento. So tired I can’t keep my eyes shut.
Light burns at its outer silence of what called you out—was it even wondering? Maybe not work, or maybe not sold. But sent no other in the moon and reliance. Doubled syllables mount a stain and triple, apparent disregard for motions unclaimed and made fortunate in their simplicity by invention itself, a process which denies purpose or conduct from their domains in the definition itself. Eyestrain and tempo, twin desires of the phonograph; storage and impunity, the twin desires of the swollen hand. Yours is the new building, mine is the rest. Spoon-fed anomalies, a rink of skaters in little skirts in shoes on wheels, droning an oval tune around the speakers under mirror-balls throwing arms and legs of light around the room to retune into an animal of one spirit and throng, lighted up and down the eye’s own seeing. Hears his dimension pulsate and change. Like an acid going down your throat. Expanding the mind’s eye and song as all things relate inert substances claw together and reform what brought them forth in the first place, and the hour of what it is, as what it is from the first to the last inside this hour.

mar manos

You’d ascribed too much to nothing at all, cramped in its austerity and resembling a hand along the line without any print at all; Mexican salad on the floor beside the table. Spooji Weldun collapsed at the sign of plenty in an otherwise empty day ahead to be filled with comfit and spoon against the willowing fen where the wind is too strong for one to stand up, yet a landed time was porked forward without nouns from an angry distaste for who’d leaned into a far away tune not marked or spoken, less silent than imagination’s refuted claims to have an answer to the basic questions like “wha” so far in the night’s nation respondo grass growing daily inches to the tune of a troubadour without portfolio. Heeded then at the blowing room left flattened by spoon and temblor from sounds of what went apart afar, no motor to your masts and flagons.
Here’s this, what crackles now and then a line or stupor in dark glasses he signed no voice in the air came to him like an answer to what was not thought but impressed upon the sands of time and time again gathering tides the knowledge of other days a fervor in the sign made with open finders lingering at the tune before a small crowd of three or four was all that came to the reading again and again making up to the lute or fender, Spooj, as he was called by his correspondents, affirmed the attention by ballooning lackey stamps on envelopes of disdain or fashion crumpled into a box of presence. The tires flat, the car’s paint pealing off against the pressure from outside a fluted plane flying too low and stroking into the tree lines flatter on the canvas than a photograph. A leaker, a poon, a formality from slow picking up to days not sent or leavened intent or other, but covered and roped aside into lanes and patterns.
Like a motel on the inner sea, lions and slippery slugs gigantic in the moon are heading out to take control of the mountain’s rhyme for something shorter than what’s described in the old manuals of discontent, a lord’s flaccid hope is pushed forward from anything flying too low, hair on the floor, shining stranger at the gate asking permission to enter the room. Butterfly barks restore the air in explosive finity laid aside nor Esperanto made the ark reply to his anxious looms, yet hard, yet far and song, yet name and pline, there the offer amended non to floral grooms a pull and stammer. Scarfed a plinty fool, healed another stark and center the soul’s departed evidence was let alone in organ’s underside replete to dog and dong aparted soon or formed like ministerial sums. Eye and charm on the wings of night restitute the shaking hand of the master as it comes apart before and after. This is the home of light.
Nay a home, nay a plinty. Sharp her lines of tone in these ministries of the heat where nothing stays the same but doesn’t change all that much. Private conversations beat the manner into flattened corpus as she put it. Out is not all that much. I recall your drift and saw it willingly carried forward on the currents of light which are the noon and sample, but which also refer nowhere the same into sensory datum, and which are themselves fodder for new tones of inclination and spread. Later scones are pushier than you’d thought, and yet the hillsides are conversations in another language which declaims without verbs or any linkages to other sites. Your own demento. Privacy in diction and an isolated withering on the mind’s eye sullen disrepute over the later mosques where the daily struggle is borne aside by an unseen hand you wish was there but which is not. Arced (are said) reams of bent color prism the sound of your wand through the air swoosh swoosh into the evening sun’s radiance and proper. It is a willingness of the landscape to survive these onslaughts of oil drilling and otherwise muted, benumbed attacks on the version queen. Spooji cleans his hands again and sets off to work unintended but forced. Foresaid allows no steamers inside the rays of blue and green which are the national sensations of yet another new country on the face of it, a map of unintended destinations. Narks a loaf.
“Hire them now” he screamed. Liners on the deck of the ship were formed, and new lutes spoken for are not now seamed nor even laid aside in the moonlight for measurement. I’ll aisle and then weep. “Rock the dusky fools,” Spooji replied without pity or scorn. Blue novels made November suck gas. Interface games were applied to the newer recruits, and they were made aware of light emanations and fluctuations. Would you nod apart? Would you claim the scintilla as a small ship of foam and dusk? It would help if you would respond with something other than sap. Rock me.
The appearance of a parent was not apparent. Polarized north and south as poles are wont to do, they were not left alone but stroke the liner to help others parasitize make contracts on your sudden departure from the scene. Lets it slide. Hoser. Lay that hammer down and machine gun the car into a fortunate link. Other tragedies beckon our limited sentiments for their own lingo yet scan the door with a mood or light into sensations we’ve doubted too long. Your tongue cut. Your ankles of swollen terms which are not noted in the manual at all, apart from the hoods without eye-holes. You’ll remember the white hoods from our own manual which had eye-holes cut into them. Costumery of silence. Crucifixion on the crossed arms of the guards at the door. Resilient youths of indeterminate age block the doors and push you back into your seat so that nothing will ‘go wrong.’
Ol’ Sea Hand he was called. Carrying the load properly was a part of the Spooji scatter of whistling great hymns and symphonies, and the crew of a hundred whistlers soon overpowered the latent prints on the gun itself. Aparted schemes made the parking lot wet. “The sentences! The sentences!” was all that was hard upon the waters of life. Spooji Sea Hand made the literal move to the big leagues in a rampant bus of wire and black, strong to the right hand lane, but not so sure otherwise of any particular line or fathom. Now the other tooth hurt, the one with the gold on it, indicating that it was already dead; it was a ghost disease of invisible proportions, this political climate. How was one to even get angry when it was disclosed by one’s eye-shape and internal cues. The neighbors came up from the desert to restore their lot by the sea. Nothing made any sense at all, it was all a confusion of fluctuations and disregard. “Talking out of the side of your mouth,” he noted.. It was once again fashionable to do so and so. Don’t tread on knee. Ripe your allowances and nieces down to bed. It’s not really so bad to dream, but they recur with nightly passion, leaving you selfless and defeated in the waking moments as you struggle in the refrigerator to name another bottle of unknown substances which lives at the back, in the darkness and vegetable slime of old days and nights surprised. Nothing climaxes the moon into submission like a great big green tank with a gun on it.
He mounted the gallows amid howls of masturbation where the signs were made by hand and arm signals only the privates knew. It was a loon or another laughing mule which loaded the platform with bags of wheat, and he stacked them into attractive piles worthy of a degree in some kind of space preservation which on the surface was another silly demotion of the academic into the pliant and profuse. Nowhere in the name of polemy was it named thus and so, but the door, as they say, was always open, so come on in and take your place at the right hand of dog. It’s not clear what the left hand wants, but it has your name on it etched in Vaseline. Like a version.
String light and burping filled the room with volume and control. They did not exactly ask but forged ahead into some kind of willingness to repeat accidents and cruelties where the bleep was not so much bleeped as left to someone like yourself to inhabit and make known to the others, a disease of which little was known other than its travel and scene. Floes right along. Monsters of the deep which look just like you do. People on the phone had small tinny voices, or was it your own? Submission was made in envelopes, if you can imagine that. It’s really from Yuba, where the green slime grows from the pockets at the edge of measurable densities, charted, graphed out into unusual patterns on the floor with spongy implements which have no name. No name in the seasons of your passage, no sign in the resemblance of your own decay and mildew. No light at the end of your tunnel, only a stop sign with lighted edges and barriers. Would at had and score the namers out to lunch. There is no sign at the edge of the desert indicating hope or otherwise. Lean into the wind, it’s your own passage on the street of other desires than the name’s you’d like to have emblazoned on your face—known, unknown, the rest. Personally, I’d like to be ‘the rest’ and let the bloomers flow along into the street and down the hill into the green valley where the restless flowers grow and sing. There’s no line to your fallow stream. There’s no end to your restless dream.
Tall or short, it made no difference, they all had their ‘rights.’ It came with the territory, the masters said, it was a part of being a part of a part. There was no hole. Pickled wheezes, raster dunes, allowances for error—none of it settles the air inside your molecules as quickly as a short dunce. Your own emptiness beckons into the night, your own self-satisfied strokes at the machine which claps out portions and lessons into the rough signs of time itself. All relates to all.
So it’s touch and glow, she said, shining in the night before you. It’s all sham and slam, it’s all deal and due, it’s all smooth and climb, the twin towers of ignorance and disdain for the real deal which lower you into the sand around your house. The only rocks here were brought in on a truck. These voices in my head won’t stop but clamor on and on without cessation or doubt. It’s a loud silence which fills my brain without hope or science. It’s a sensation of nothingness which has dimension and description, but I don’t know what it is. This is the non, where all relates to all.
This clunky silence has a reparation and a tone which would alarm even the deaf with its unceasing and increasing demands. Like a hungry stomach, it sings its grumble and its frothy pits with some scene of color and seeming. Then it stopped. It ground to a halting, wheezing implemento of the line and the sign, a scorier relief of the boon and the tune, a plaster cast of the sneeze and the breeze, if that’s not too simple. Your own incense curling into the air, smelling like food or like a car on the road of light. It’s a nominal collapse of the pinto in the field of dreams and screams. It’s the day you died and rose into the air with a plume of fashion and disregard and became a lighted thing.

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- Kilobyte Magnificat


…here the message ends
& the beating of your heart wakens into silence…..

Kilobyte Magnificat

allowable presence undisturbed without angle or design inside the flat surface realigning hears your own dues repeated again and again precludes your nostrum on the flats in here inherent pleasures recall the doorway into her rooms were flat blue and not without some kind of pity into the paint which hears no reminders are the sentimento of the day’s hours inside the hours again

has my noodle wherein betwixt the rougher dodge elapses less formal dognoses leaping up onto the bed, like light or life or lunker dues where’s the date for this unfortunate repose you’d refused no matter but what keens informat a luxor shunto pelixer emated untone lorped fenixules refirm ete bonano markers flaming the hope of centure adipose or reflector then holds tight

you’ll betime nor foals denuded portune nix hester blues the dirted flame eaks beyond a firmer mattress flatter than the fools which ride them thus hinker hankers a pony in disguise speaks French dressings’ their own bowel inclimate portions due, er, do, then max to the former ancients at fact or presence without imagery the word plasm delutes into fuxus nexus into heralded

eskirted toward her moaning flank eyed helded without form or denials these heavier puntos where’d sparked flattened motion mnemonics forced the closure internals rime to polk raw fun at her oyster belittled entumesce forks a dern to plinty in her funston dark stone in munted strokers down aside but held and fern not no heavers spinning hands on hands mounted even skies now

mattressidal, as, flat but bowed toward central portions your back your back screaming for forgiveness yet heralded beyond what’d inflamed gout her central portions steaming late ahead nor plenty in your scorn was afforded jetsam made the lists’ evoked manners like blaming youth your indescretions’ measure in the mud no handle cleaning light her own tales foretold yet left along

heard nor mixed some potion forcing back and forth the highways’ lone distinction was not matter nor portion entire but mooded out the same as before slinky parts not shown but let in on the split fantaso hoped for more but then became a day ahead nor foamed like this opening in the heart to spurn or pinto sharks their own shape was nosed aside the ocean steaming at yr desert’s song

riposted hunks there owner destiny yules distanced roasts like a larker’s due wast said sad but left along the highway in seasonal rest rescued then afforded putant shields fashions were the new deal eskirted shapes denude a poster-child leans forward into the sun sunny dues flanked arcs red and purpose flakes bemused ‘em short sharks shirts spun no matter within less heralded effacements

one as tumesced fluorescence blown manners ahead were spilt lessens movie-day engorge like canyons’s deals where herded but less firm as her busy flesh pealed into some arcs mellifluous hardened more hoarded eskers where due or not but thrust aside a porker’s salient refuge restoring penitent a thruster’s calm study-doo nor harped a sudden moist and scanty firmed this darkened

tide a camera angle’s eventide smoke what pinned a bald head with arms folded smoked ‘em not against their wool, nay pinched skarn within broken lips their disasters narked pools reflected a general restrained atmosphere, fear of atmos raging undetailed inside here a marked plenty folded grey-blue eyes within smoke laid aside ensampled formals to rake or put them aside to late for

duty’s flute and permanent. lites a day away wast not sed, nor skinny dues asleep all day against the tide’s awakening deals his serious look not a stage or spinny let ‘er down dunes magnificent hole affirmed in tents or disregard smooth lips had here herded a motive claims detail seas quested marker in iron’s side are not spoke but affirmed hints these are the roaming arrows of destiny

shuns pleasure’s fool in fervor after hand’s extended plumes within flesh hearts to squeeze and sigh in silent postures unreversed from stain’s hands’ furor shut the door to seeing or sharing-out unprepossessive allowances for denuded poems on the floor but held and fern to tough touch was greased aplenty then spoken about “about” was not so much elemental but longing-atuned, prest

agitation normal’d faced or offal smoothed a leer reformed to shum or fungal, thus to ask arks wither head to head was nay a marker let exploded snarks, wast nor said without time for any, but spoke too soon to mix for fester tunes no lark but spent bent then tuned up was spoke nor central found their own masters homing into death’s own manner in the head’s own portions nude bent

remood nor prescient says to fumers deals not known but stroked apart buildings bound tall found firmed his red and blue news was under wear nor bent aside to flaps rounding out the homes for newer days were posted ahead in southern elements when poked or flaunted hours yours to seem seen yet spoken aloud nor parted ways were inspent to forded howers booming canyons

this was parked outside in yellow hues made internal rhymes their own destiny to honor your names with pity, and formal doors laid beside the spoken room where sensation made the poor’s ways door ways framed in sense or outer told to spoken shadows to tuned-out to hope’s whore pays makes a center of your doubts not seen or flamed apart no other holds these ways ahead

youse nor sad appeal’d’d singer of flattened tool nor hinty spake affirmed buttspoke lates a nur flank plenty to her sparn nay heisted forks these rues or peak a scanty pool refolked a hoser noaks this a bit taller than the other, or looking back was not afforded fools to hesitate no longer in the dark but manners shorn too soon to recall even of doubt itself a farmer in the mists regains

what shielded man from his own partitions in the cosmos said no more than isolation or masking from the eloquent silence the doorways not opening in time itself where action spoke to deeper layers from the distances themselves afforded no mere centering or passions of disregard in the elemental denial of love’s own cry for attention at the home or lessons of the nasty storm

tenino parmesan, tenant of the latent building, hoaked him stammer le-lets my own punto spin in the distance at a forming pool wheeled nor fooled against her still-moving hips and strategies, a broken disk, perhaps, yet marked along under the breasts with a dotted line made red in anger or lisped from foreign parts ports were not made yet affirmed by noodles in the languor of her pits

this not sharp nor even focused intent but smooth planes of lingo stretched across the room and then taut to her movies in the elemental scorn which descent of which not mentioned later but interned from fortune’s gasp was not made of women either but held and firm to the mounting flame nor spoken rasps wherein and proper you’d led astray or flamed in turns the beaches morning

he’d handed out cupped hands in supplication of the pope’s rope not tight nor central but the moon’s own cropped arcs where he clung to the mountain’s side in mad singing sweat and harped affirmed nay steady at the light’s dues made this song familiar in time’s sung acts let no one say “stay” or harp the night away in these nouns made similar to the time you said good bye and staid

this sheep his form incarnate yet shielded hands do mark the stools and silences with coins around the circumference let them go more now than not was said within traces how you let me down the day’s and central parks the hibiscus termed kneeling faces in the moon where pops pope the hour daily and sing along with jesus said to me to form in easter’s will and plenty tools

let me down softly in the flinty scorn of your own detachment made simpler by the distances from the broken heart’s healing places in the continental drift from left to right no mistaking how you left the doorway opening and closing in sentinels of disregard who met me darker now than not yet pooled apart where the mood’s movie signaled empty hours not smoothing away at all

strange faces cloud the war without name or identity stuck the boats at sandy strokes between her eyes a spot and center which holds you dirt and stone and diamonds on the floor in your own flesh was nomenclature and vocabulary forced into these acts by men without faces either on the wall or door you’d left history signing hearts and waves no mere matter on the platforms again

here you’d made the hours long enough to tend to the diction of the day, or met them willingly inside doubt itself and then abandoned me into the sun to melt and just go away was how it was said along the way waving one hand not so free but hidden under the melons indifferent to fate itself was the freedom you might have found without name or energy in the heart’s own disturbances

nor death nor dearth of the heart’s own woodenness flusterd outer pinnacles denote not presence but the hustings of the belittled portion of what’s left of you spinning in the air not pleasant but the inner bustle of the little porn you’d left on her face facing up in the wind on the air on her hair in the lessons of the pontiff punk no doubters skinning out the lower depths are still nonsensical

this was a ‘let substance’ glowing monstrance gestural inclusion in the cliffs on the shore in the moonlit substances flaccid on your hand’s air’s particle and calm which left no measure to the man under-hand was still spoke and centered within pain the names of which recalled the motor under the floor was her’s to deal and your’s to steal in the smoothing of light around the air

rituals of expulsion clinging to her underwear in the dog’s kitchen semblances left you straining at the musk of the moon with cats everywhere you meant to stay but started out nearer to the center than you’d thought was not even possible permitted no longer but the husks of corn rotting in the corner, still silent waves of blue-green water cascading over the top and into the realms of light

‘this’ was a shift of sentence structure which mooded might and mane into forgiveness by no other hand than your own under the covers seeking what might be found or heard from on the oceanic norms withering into something abandoned and unspoken beyond the maximum density of heaven-sent color and climate into the loom of history’s ankle and stem in the momentum of signs

one as dust into movies weather channels swimming hours in pre-sentiment where’s lighted wet spots mooded the hour claim and throng with green signs everywhere the road outward not sentenced but motived simpler tombs relieved the lighter signs with whomsoever swatted the fly onto the window of the moment where you’d been too long without food or water for the soul

this meant ‘spoon’ to the particles left on the plate wherein and proper older themes re-expressed like a pontoon float bridge without any river to cross where the travelers stall and argue like flagons of wine without any tops on them, screening nobody in particular to lean forward into the wind and clear your throat of clichés and parts of speech given into the rain of your own detests

what was taken will not be returned and accommodating to the resulting absence is like finding a bottle too empty to be refilled yet treasuring it for its shape and form and the curvy lines of the glass long before you throw it with distaste onto the rocks and leave the moon sighing for the emptiness you’d declared proper and necessary onto the formation of the universe again and again

lingo-tingle hears the wasps bearing down on yr elemental solitude without pity or remonstrance lingering within her harps are sudden delimited postures woven singly or doublets ringing spinkies across the rhythm-moon as had, so let’d out these simpler rocks on bass fletchers score the doubt was laid within simple torahs roasted ducks the easier hours flung two-by-two

smoother lamps were not strewn as much as screwed to the floor by his long dork which hung by the door with chimneys of care and sung a flogged smoothie as he climbed the airways with air; no matter to his chinky dues, the later hours were let go as much as spun into the loonie dusk wherein and simple as the more moronic latecomers were swept up in the blotter of the hour

your mother’s cunt. flashed by the hour in reminiscence, my own passion ruined forever by watching her’s masturbation flash at the foot of the bed, only thirty six inches tall, and not my dick, but the empty spasm of forbidden mysteries which cloud your mind forever repeating one after the other the same empty image until she got it right on the tall bed with him at the foot, watching

what coaxes speech in the lost hours of life after the fall only solidifies the tree upon which he hung up his ladder and painter’s mitt all clouded with the effulgence of the latent sign which hobbled the heavens with their own star patterns emergent flux of the denial of light in which dark holes gobble up your image themselves negative absences on the floor of life itself

what light or stare precludes the portents themselves until finally indifference moods into ‘modesty’ in which he carries the thing through into a silence and shelter which is itself the term of the hour of which we speak, all tempos modified by the scale of the detail which had become the image itself filling the windshield as he drove the continent two, three, four times over and over

lost in the lost hours of time itself, the ranger rancorous simpilizes the day itself into seeming set, sentenced, hours themselves in the counting of the addict which allocates unto each moment a sign or pressure which makes it real instead of, in the place of, in stead of the similitudes which poetry establishes as the tone of the hour itself, each moment real in its’ originality

so doesn’t everybody smoke up and sit in front of the keyboard scratching away as long as you can stand it, or is it some other smoky demagogue relicating into the silence of the ages with whip and scorn, with angle and stain, smoting the beleagured spaces into some kind of strewn atmosphere with parrots pontificating in the ceilinged rooms rocked out with ‘happy new year’ hats

and the glasses they got married with, drinking the wine of ages with their flaccid, aging flesh fresh in the renewal of time which each fuck generates between the beloved and the interhoven spasmic menial of the fork and spoon, in the hour of the sign of the mushroom and the glow of the standing destiny who travels forward step by step in the blue green tempo of the glow itself

new terms their own tempos deride into pleasance, into the known substances which delimit and turn terms’ terns their own oceanic demeans no pressure’s pleasure names your heart the days’ names you called aloud in alcoholic presence, the meetings in the cold arbor aroma in the insensate destructo of the heart’s displeasure seeming sent set like light like luck like liking out…..

yours at had, no meter in the mists of what you left behind in the tempos of yesterday had you down and simple in the colors green and red and blue, I met you in the silences of now, we were dancing slowly non-compliant humanitoids fluxing in and out of the silent repose I held you in the seeming silence of man’s obedience to the motives we have between us one on one and now….

I bit your face off one on one, and dangled simplicity in fortune’s favors in disregard met the plenty of your own face handled now by the easier forms of doubt, as I saw you seeming one color or another spilt the air’s own shadow into me like some fathom of doubt inherent in the naming of color itself, red and blue and indigo and violet heard me seeming now and then alive

where this was this name now inherent smoothes the hour’s own star beckons nears the tower due and clear now seeming sent or set one on one the time’s own darkness knows your name the dues to clear no act but seeming now the one in time and hour as the one you are names colors black and orange and fire and elemental knows your own sense of who you are now

what’s forced not set or sentenced out beyond the surfline flailing angles of repose are mood and plenty to the snow’s own falling flakes in sense or outer heals the liners of your broken sense the wheel of life turning on your face flattened into the mud by forces beyond your petty comprehension of the magnitude of the distances between here and there another style behaves you

dragon chains retain these claims inside the rains you hear your names recalled by doubt her pines were faces on the floor the snake beside you holding tight the lines you taut to smell the times inside the rain the floor was focused on the moving plane to say retain in pleasures stroked one by one your time was spent beside the light and said again ‘it’s all right maw it’s life and life only’

the eagle’s cries deny his size in claims are met where prize the skies infernal rime replies denies and says who plies his ancient trade the magnificat in terms reminds and sends to those whose lies inter the maze and say you’re amazed and stay to seem what’s now the mean streets littered with the objects and formations of a generation in retreat from the snow that falls and stays

light’s lines linger always forward into seeming set or sentenced like your lucks liking licks an’ then sum. holds her down down, feathers melted by the sweat of the ages bending inside your mouth quickening forward again against tune and time itself the immortal glance folding your heart sideways betimes between this and the hours you left behind me in the showing tours and silences

your own giants in recall fervor the scene with their own magnificences poling parts apart you send her down the layers in the elf elevator quivering like a leaf under your hand’s handy struts and thrusts, this is the she of welts, this ‘she’ or ‘her’ of the heart’s disturbances knowing knowledge spurs your own farmers on the field of dreams ploughing their rough rows willingly

marks a nark marker sings the open wail of willing sighs pulls you down into the moon, into the pleasure of your own disturbances marked her one-on-one the last dance on the card was still a movie in reverse but pulled yet polled across time’s lines were heard and spent the movie’s salient reverse perverse yet pulled apart like a donut or a snacky-bar in hand in spent, in molasses went

your portent rage not willing to be put aside but spent like the dues of the outer strains, hears her willing spin and center to the will’s own plinty scum portrayed in silent mists the name forgiven like what you will Will, a message into forgiveness for the sigh of time’s own emptiness clears your airs no season to the song you let them air-out and spill the scene’s portraits moving silent now

time’s own dentals pear your movies in repeat, how the spoken hours nay replete the smoking bomb hears your own heart weaving signs and tunes into blue starts to be the same as what went before into seeming set or sentenced, your mother’s punto flaming bears you down the air and claims your forehead into broken motives drinking whiskey all the way and feeling good

this layer’s line finds signs their own repute mentioned sentimento on the musk of the hour’s bower splint and pin, the looser loser peals his arcs away in camo suitage spins his four wheeler into the mists of history’s emptiness peeling the names of rage into submission marks the hours wasted tone and temple clears the narks their own vests of hemp and wooden shit forlorn

will not halt or shine opposite the willing dark is a welcome spin to those who live apart and learn to do so, signing survival on the wall of the eloquent hours you left inside the shining hours were theirs to hold apart his song singing the loner gallop in retense or further shows this is the potent trail into the unknown darkness where no gallops intervene or are even wanted to do so

let me lie in my own signs unforgiven and intense yet not yours to judge or even scheme their portent a willing sign of what’s within would not include you who stand by the door your own signs leaving the sign of loneliness a forgotten string on the floor of the bar by where they spit and sing internal rage and sadness let the moon shine let the door wave open one by one again and again

looser gaps not willing to intervene into her own airs set aside not begins or flat, buttressed and calm the arcs wither underhand, your dick a forgotten sentimento on the floor of her room of peeling paint and abandoned hope no love in the air of what you left behind a leer and a smirk was not welcome but longs for a blue and green forgiveness plaid upon the ear of the door

what would not said nor sad, this is the portent hour, this is the mooner spin, this is the black and green of the forgotten salad you forgot the oil and let the rest go by, let the turtle go and raced his white and black forgiveness a letter in the same for all those who forgot to care and moved the silence forward, a history in reverse, a mooner in the mists a moist sentence under your left hand

stroke this passing term another car swerving sideways in the snow at noon replete nor skinty peals her dorks a plussing hand in between your sentences a pant or dancer hears your dolt a wooden ark for pleasure stroking left and right the battery and its other odors null your doubter’s song without wast not sed nor peasant, was not red nor greener in the musky doom you pursued outer hearts

this met white stripes in yellow carts their own bags lifted forward into wobbling speaks the encirclement wast not fled nor porter, & hears her arcs heaving sweet enclimed this further dust not fled yet pardoned in the mist, reflamed from the doubter’s musk the evening side a tidal flat not removed from color into the terminal’s heart hears another dealer insist the day ahead

the slacker’s due insists no humor to the musk between her sighs a spot and singer pining lates the dues feeler and throng to late to deal again marks your motives pong to peal, a blue enreeled or futured car-mode, a rotomontade which peals your markers bank left foot drinking deep you’d other her heart into these memoried spins and dancers peeling now again you fall apart in song

dork central reporting on the insolence of the age, at atmospheres spun and particled into forgetfulness by the ‘owners at be’, like lucks, like licky sucks they paster and formulate into the quiet sentimentos you’d not occluded herein and nasty spins the lanker due his own formality sends you down again in what’s not said against the tides, the unforgiven sentence not uttered but given

this, uh, séance, as it was imagined, not let or lettuce, a vegetable in your midst, on your mists—whatever. you’d not occluded but met me signing on the ark of your own forgiveness salient features fasting pheasant and vulture in the mark of the air, how wind and seem and open sign the latent hours fled not pastured, not measured into the mark and posture of the sign in its own forgiveness

this western hourlogue, a farmer skeining pintos left and right, is this the manner of the new kingdom? your nature’s latened rusk pints and smathers how you’d been a loser on the farm-wagon of destiny’s cart, no heaves nor sudden, such a diction laid rest the plaque of the hour, the finger of the middle kingdom inserted in your wet spot like a destiny, like a dirty movie…..

this much is clear, the outer moves include willingness and the departure of the soul into the darkened areas of unknowing and stillness. of course, this is a sentence of words you admire or forget, ‘i believe in science,’ knocks your outer movies into the latent skeins of doubt you wear like clothing or a cloth. no mere matter in your mists, as this is the latent tango of which we have spoken……

would you met not slut the hour’s spoon and sender? I’d particled your wet spot into a movie we both watched without pity or scorn. and here’s passion’s wilderness a new tune on the landscape—‘who decides at the work-day that hemlines will be below the knee?’ what traps will drive the spirit into ignorance and denomination, what pools reclude the motive into its own particular stain?

his grey hair a swollen marker like a melon or a giant peptide clears your own heart of doubt and the other answers you give to anonymity; a dream figure resembling a poster scene from the forgotten world of movie reality and manufactured historical loyalty in the midst of unknown substances rotting on the table without pity or scorn, another nominal particulate resumption of stunnage…..

‘kick over the daniels’, layers out the monofontanues within their own mapping which yields his names and marker their own easels or grey fountains, this is the name i give you here in the musk of grey and blue-green and the cool violet-grey named “history’s insignificance” in the color catalog at the hardware store, a million hues in the tubes of red and green and blue and violet…..

i’d met no-one in the empty pylons of history, like a room full of strangers meeting itself, where’s the formula for conversation but the ‘uh’s’ and ‘ah’s’ of the silent montage where color indicates more than the hue and cry of doubt itself; mere meetings heal the doorway of its own insignificance and the useless tumescence of the vibrator in the hustings of the linear attributes healing…..

yours as the namer truly, this is the open due—we’d met some insolence as the particle of the times’ own substance in self reflection and the foolish evolution we call digress or follicle. this seems the normer doubt, this spins the pooler musk in your insignificance made a lie or a foolish script device; you’d been not outer but a whole asshole merging shadows and implants like scars or fiction

i wrote your name down again and again, it was no use, you still can’t love. smoking dope is no remonstrance against the tides, but as they say, it helps. no layers in forgiveness or doubt, no great hard-ons in the insignificance of the body’s dying out; this is the hustings-air, the deflation of magnificence, the cosmic exhaustion of the doo-wa-ditty, leaving you down and smothering into the moon aloft and sudden like some sudden smoothing out in the causal darkness….

i’d had, no said. this was the lunker-due, his was the husting-fault; it was my own, my own emptiness clarified by doubt, not by dusk. a settling son, or sun, no matter in her mists wherein and proper—no-one believes in the name of poetry, to their own detriment, is this the name we asked for in the silence of the moment itself, is this the hour of which we speak, now that it’s here?

yours at had, this is the name of doubt, as, ‘i am from history’ in the darkness of retreat; this is the name of the day you said ahead, ‘i am from eternity,’ and I believed it, as I still do, that what mentioned forward was still the solitary due, in term and regret a fathom folded outward and singing another empty wail of forgiveness and sadness lain around the room like doubt, like love…..

i’ll betimes, the nature of the beast’s best warrior factions meeting and meaning in the air itself, it‘s no other that you speak, but the spunto of the empty hours one against the other that brings you down, that invites death in its emptiness like a song without beginning or end, that’s the name of the hour we do not speak about, it’s the emptiness of the song that brings us in…..

this was the line left open for all to see and hear clearly nothing in riposte or pattern, the road forward foraged the senses’ own retunt or streaming flung to deals not spent or colored out were there in sign and doubters at the edge of the scene not crying out but herded together in omniscient rows of detriment they called aloud not to stay too long but carry them outward and outward

or claimed too long what was lost not said but formed apart from then left to rot with all the rest of memory’s husks and forms, the hour grown long enough to rescind taste from its blue doors weakening out but grows again inside the heart where it must or call you down into the darkness of which you have just spoken is not enough to occupy the rest of your days another second

from the weakened estate new volumes decry the hour’s empty signs around you that the universe is falling, too, into some other significance than you’d imagined in your solipsistic haze where no death redeems us from the solitude of our time apart from those we know no longer than what met us along the way of our own wanderings from the far point into the center and back

your hours not spent in disregard totally, but measured along your solitary way like a trail of signs met you willing to consider even your own doubt wherein and proper, let them stall at times in the forward process leading into leaning disrepute in your own eyes but measured not along their own recall was here enough to be forgotten as soon as you might break free and realign

the heaves and sighs of the man in the straight jacket leaves on the floor gasping for breath in the flux of the act itself a measure of our own dogs wandering around the state while the trainer flails pathetically with his little whips and arrows inside the temple where we met again and again within color or time itself a momento at the edges of the sand-island we call hope

or purity in disuse was not so much allowance as recall, of what, but not said sad in the tempo or hours of the balanced skies their own pinpricks of light and dark suddenly upon the brow of the seeker left within his own mists where ‘no birds sing’ and allow the tempos of light their own warp and woof of hesitation as we draw the light fires apart from the day itself an other new song

which sets the armies marching across your fluted plain, a golf show indescribably there in the middle of the old dusty road, a new fly in the noses of his own deceit kept them leaning forward, digging oysters out of the dirt with their hands moving slowly up and down her body looking for sensation of any sort but finding none you sink into a fallow ditch and grow new feet again

even the mix itself is without scorn, but laid aparted within pleasure hours the daily pledge a newer gate upon the fronds where you allow them access to your body with small tics and pressures in the dark examination room he speaks your name again and the lighted square holds the facsimile of your inner form excluding the parts that feel and squirm when touched by the fire in your hands

as prosaic sentiments are agitated without imagery and then thrown onto the floor to see if they can crawl at all into motion and sound their vacillations made internal dance crazes heal the time from its desperation and significance, into these daily hours where you measure my tone a term for denial which outlasted even the meetings you went to for a healing by listening to hate crimes

but then, rectititude honored the moment with forgotten, dusty shoes piled in a pile by the door awaiting spring hustings to lose the way its twists and turns erratic to the flow of energy recalls you into life even where there is none yet leans ahead to smooth down the closing cloth as hears your lines and says, again, this is the hour of which we have spoken…..

‘working through’ we say, into what, no doubt, the question lingers upon return to a blank page might be a target or a fashion for life’s pursuits, though leaves you with nothing when the onion falls apart in your hands, the car loaded with a few possessions, and the rest goes by into healing or waking dreams or the confusion of the two you made a sentiment on the markings of the shore again

oracle smooth-pond raises his hand in a gesture of allowance as the star patterns emote from his forehead with a movie-like piety you left like portrayals of poetry heroes, whatever that might be, as role models for the illiterate, after all, for whom a good lie is better than a bad truth, and imitation as the sincerest form of doubt clears the air around you ekes a pleasure into a less significant portion

what to do? eke out some of the same old shit and call it what you do, it all comes out baloney, and the mayonnaise on the bread of life is only an imitation of the real thing which is your flesh pounding and vibrating inside its column of blood with the ferocity it inherits from the earth itself further on again and again

awakened without a scream at the snarling faces left inside the dream with its lost luggage and trips into the unknown which never actually get off the ground, leaving you in the space between words you never thought you’d hear yourself saying into the blank pages she scattered around the floor, among the houses piled by the door was how it came down into the light only too soon

‘we’ll take the horses’ he says outside the broken door looking for dust mites under the bed and in the corner of the room with nothing left to the imagination it is still hard to see all of them rousting about the climaxes you were too soon declared a pliant forger in the mists of chance encounters on the kind kind

blue sands measure your light unaccountably yet mirror the days’ their own partitions the shelves filled with calves, the boxes strewn about the fields outside with machinery attached to the hole in the ground where you’d meant to stay the night before the night you sang aloud to the gritty peasants in the bar with glasses in front of them on vacation as it were, on allowance

the other shapes clear willing silence into its own demeanors, into ropes and fathoms the names of which a blue bag a telephone on the door and another new story in the making was how it was put to those who looked again and mated silent signs to the blue door to the blue fathoms in their sandy disks he spoke to his shirt and let the hearing make its way through the air you meant to say

bar’d harbor no entry to the till you’d heard obstructed then released by intruders who’d left no traces on or not with an old convertible paused up the dirt road for another escapee from the alien camp they let no surviving poets scream aloud into the mazes and terminals of food-stations or the danger in the musk of what had followed across the heavens and into the folklore

another welcome in restraint clears the air of what had preceded like a doubt mentioned like an old rubber hand in some photographs he took around town one day or two which let the spirit go somewhere else, anywhere else, in these forms of renewal not understood but acted out by the marshals in disguise of their own identities had him singing again for no reason at all

faced off in the inevitable strain, howitzers ablaze and in restraint, the days retune into something eternal but without sensation in these terms and outlaws of sensation which are not new but old like memory itself from the layers you’d forgotten to mention me in the hours of daylight a painting of a toothpaste tube scorned the wall with its gentle absence of anything at all at all

‘i won’t ask’, he says, the mask of the hours a latent disregard which leaves ‘em gasping in pain still watching a smoke plume rising from his belly or cleans the sun of its opacity and doubt to reline another day with hope and pity all at the same time too real to be true and to true to be real marked the specific gravity like another color in the spectrum an un-named totality

relixir punto, the hour remits to pattern and structure lays aside the words themelves into a rapunto of which nothing is spoken by the layers in the household of the normative, the delay and the posture of solitude etched into the ground like something filling the hours with the appearances themselves perhaps all that’s left on the floor to recompense for the deluded scorn of the insider’s gout

no escapes the rapine sentiment you’d retarded into slaky doubt inside the hours themselves where blue and brown eyes mix into a slighter gasp than the unrecognized taste of flesh or the name of light inside you clears the hope and spin of this prologue which can’t find anywhere clean to restore the lingo to its moment

they’d faded out a memory of dusk and partner, yet paired up again the tempo of the moment was a healing disk set upon the waters as you might have or not, the thoughts and images themselves no longer an intrusion but the source of the lighted image which hung upon the air without discretion or purpose they cleared out the remaining spaces for the heart’s clarity and denudo

relict stringers declare apportioned unknown substances a tonal on the doubt of husks and spinners from color into the airy noon you called aloud into the space of life itself we shore no faults this ark this tempo this shrine of the elemental discord we inherit and repair as life’s work’s celebrations ask the signs themselves to heal and face you forward again onto the beach and sign

hung drop door slam no peeky skulls the art some door some boor some beach clings the total dues you’d declared arf limits to the dog pound thunder struck into allowances or disputed claims too fast gone by the air’s retreating slime on the floor beside you tombs to scars’ delight a hearing mist declaiming shouts and silences against the tide’s warming span attuned

patience’s sign attenuates your delivery and parts the ways to clear out something reminded beyond the descriptor on the flaming hearts and flowers at screen and tempo how you’d made me line the floor with powders and the colors of light itself denuded into particles as you’d missed or floated the other side of what and when kicks it out and lays off now and again.

wispy tinctures cloud the mind’s mind in sense or outer drives the heart into distraction at the mere direction of what’s been left aside in the postures of the self’s woes indecipherable in particle and response in the acts made and in the words spoken out from who you thought you were asking ‘is there a self at all?’ to seem what’s given in the monuments we raise to the universe

as, who’s asking who or whom or whatever identifies as the asker and the asked, as the difference between the questioner and the question you still want to know, ‘is there a self at all?’ minding the store, zipping your fly in the center of the ballroom hands in pockets, like, ‘pockets? I have no pockets.’ seems to sum it up or down the long trail winding into the mountains

the mountains where you lose your mind, lose your self in the processes of the mountain itself engulfing you within its magnitude clears the heart’s beating of all identification with what may lie beyondo or max, leaning into the wind with your long hair waving free and one hand up against the crotch of a tree, still in this stillness you ask, ‘is there a self at all?’

condition and response, experience and the reactions to it seem to make up the soul and self in their attenuation to the moment, leaving the whole being to the flow of time itself within the space defined as where and how you seem to be aware of ‘stuff’ moving on the plane of attention, scrolling memory up and down in the silence of your footsteps, your brain reeling old rock and roll

what answers is not the inferior interior in process at all times as it is, but the interplay of outer and inner hustings in the silence of thought which plays across conscious awareness like the moon in its disturbances of doubt and pleasure or how you weave and howl at the progress of time into its conclusions the day you stepped aside and let the answers come & go again

again you stall and flutter at the signing of the hours you may have retrieved from the unconscious of your own details stuttering into the world as you hid and ran through the brush into the dream itself waiting on the edges of the land while the sea brushes against you silently in its own regard of your insignificance on the hands of rhyme which stall you forward again

and again you steel and press into focus as if your life depended on something, something to redeem the gift from its pleasures in having you for dinner, served up on a bed of tea leaves, paws and presses in upon the stale waste of fragile moments, standing in the rain with your hands in your pockets, thinking, this is the hour of which they have spoken, and is there a self at all

yours at had, here remonstrance clusters the arrows with volume and magnitude, as if what matters were immediately apparent in not standing apart from the emotions of the moment itself, you flutter your flags and wander the motion of the sun across your face like the passage of the seasons or the allowance of the hour where you felt like felt like passing through unscathed

now you’ve drawn your elbow across the face of what matters and found time on the side of no single entity in the term of stillness with which it passes through us, no matter to the place or certainty of its massage in the wilderness of chance encounters of the worst kind you found them all around you without diagrams or instructions in the spaceless term of light we all inhabit

light lingers softly on the pines and fountains of home while the gray-scale of eternity flickers in and out of focus, your heart beating soundlessly in the chest of your own ambition to being at all, and the trails of the tribes before you wander further into the deeper layers of consciousness and its other, as we cluster together in the coming darkness, waiting for a sign or song.

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- IMAGE, MEMORY & EVENT


The categories of reflection which apply to cases of acts, of which event is a singular disturbance, where the poetry of one’s life is arranged to generate states of information, when shyness outlasts its very presence, from style removed (at last) into its own doubts and sentences, among all the parts of its labors, where what is spoken as thing and demeanor has the quality of presence endeavored by all that precedes the name or act of anything else to its proprieties and actual resonances, where others include by the force of their humanness to the ceremonies underway, which they are always to the exclusion of arts and times, in the actual spaces they have before them in the offerings which have been made and done to the actual dimensions of pleasure, power and the illumination of moments to their included spaces, where it is throughout what one is doing and everything to its place.
So I think we are really at the relation of memory and events, where we are wholly attached to what we know already to be true and directed out of all that passes for what we are toward the simplicity of continuing and doing in the midst of experiencing, that where we have come toward all that we remember out of what is good in our lives, that we have in us always the mode and vehicle of our gestures and plans, but a drama as we might name it first of the place where we lived and then as the ceremony in which that life took its center and focus for its dimension toward movement, finally out of what happens through the calculations and proprieties of speech toward a behavior in which cleverness and intelligence are surpassed by the force and drive of the physical good toward its mirror in the eyes of others, from all their premises regained from the center of outward motion that the manifestos of energy around which we make our intense preparations contain the essential plans and motives of all that we are in the midst of our clamoring attention, toward the one and center of the community of acts from which the center of the universe is regained. As one is the center and touched place of all that acts in its eloquence of description, how the residues resolve all hesitation and discord toward completion, where all that is selective and compulsory in the selections of attention diminish even the visual pressure of location, that even as one remembers he knows his continuing, that one is never lost to thought, that those hypnoses of recollection are never total; the functioning of events is thus to load the situation to its resonant and utter dimension, and that at those moments “in event,” the shape of the possible occurs with the wisdom of what we all know together as a fact.
What has to be maintained is that there is no chance to it, and that must be qualified in the following way, first, that the notations of attention are direct and allow the very shape of the event beyond all dramatic possessions, that as movement is the absolute that it is only the permission of the good which follows the event through its surfaces to the center of acts, the person. And second, that while the manipulations and physical drifts of sequence, or time, remain fixed in their initial rhythms, the sudden as a quality of information, persists with its relation to cause paramount, that what occurs is not necessarily necessary, but that it occurs. There is some recognition in that, where the person warps to allowance, in an almost gratuitous gesture of familiarity, with the assurance that the ceremony is ameliorative, and that the choice is always insistent and correct, that way out of guilt.
The time of acts, then, presses toward an inclusion of each to his means, where the solid and elementary coincidences of preparation, for instance, contain the germs of response called for by the situation. The experiment, then, could become a model of behavior surpassing even a poem or a visual test (glancing), in its totally effective functioning as a metaphor for the whole. Dimensions of preparation are calculated toward the pressures of the particular moment when they can be revived out of the psychology and perfection, where they remind across insistence, of the forms at hand, since what is critical to the topic—memory and events—is a proper placement of acts and forms as they relate to cause and person in our hesitant theory of ceremonies. I mean, if we are to proceed to the village, whom shall we ask, anyone? And if he suffers from our speech, where could we assure him of our good intentions if not at home?
So there are the final considerations to make preliminary even to acts, the special deaths we imagine for ourselves which precede the history of any event in which we choose to focus our delicate and particularly detached sensations; they are carefully guarded, not out of particular fears, but through their maintenance and design, if it is not wholly abstract to determine cause from place.
Thinking and stillness advance through the isolations of the event toward our proper place and angle, in the midst of which some reminding would surround the antagonisms of space. Where we are mistaken, or taken for that, there is resemblance to cause rather than the state which results from movement, or a vernacular paradise suddenly called up by the notion of language or its plural. But even the style of a place seems to rest in the view we take, and the event locates to us without speed.
Where are we, then, if we are not, and when we are, are we there where we are and no place else; but reading, even, assures us of error, or we think so, so in seeing, we would have those same dogmatic lapses of demand and calculation which would hold to nouns. And images. But who are we in the image of what we see, and where is the knowledge that what we see is there if we come to it in memory, in that slow way of sequences. But we forget, too; I mean this seems to come way before the question about the sources of the assertive qualifications which lie in the realm of the act itself, or what a life could mean through its disturbances and variations to the one who suffers through its vagueness and interruption, though what presents itself, or what a life could mean through its disturbances and variations to the one who suffers through its vagueness and interruption, though what presents itself to a place, in recollection, has the force or drive of images, though we are still far from a visual reconstitution which has completion in its form or detachment from “the real.” The event in its location. The act in its purposes and persuasions toward action, where they are not so familiarly simple, where even a style outlasts its purposes and distinctions to meditation.
So there is nothing left to remind us of anything and we almost stop breathing, while all we know refuses to leave. There is that muscular geometry to dance which we could resolve through intention and design without losing the particular source which we so desire to maintain, a strategy of special losses, not to respond to particular situations in a tactical preparation for the whole thing, where all opportunities for withholding are surpasses by the magnitude of the event; it is measurable by the organism underway, the disturbance or the perception occurring contains the possibilities implicit in its existence, and so expands through its course toward the means that are available. The active agent collects through all the evidences and names to its special quality or intensity as an illumination or presence, as is commonly noted. The generative absolute, doing, and its complement, continuing, where the event underway draws everything toward its center while the shadow of its parts flies toward the extremes of behavior and style. Things are invented, and ways evolve.
What I am reminding myself of here is the cosmos contained in the act, and as a remedy of attention which I mean to yield image to its particular style of being and behaving, that what we meant was just that, and not out of surprise, either. And where we come out is not the same.
As a furthering would continue the same through its processes, where is nothing mysterious outside the necessities of dimension to drive toward its palpable sensations in doing, where a familiarity of observation can delude through the sensual and specific back toward the same or to notation, in its simple reflection. True reflection would emerge from its necessary tendencies and elegance to the relationship of balance in action, and here the cause of the act becomes a relevant addition to discourse, where the abstractions of the movements appropriated calculate the nature of the disturbance, since the drama of cause will not seem in all cases to be the same. Words continue out of their very substance toward the activities of name and place, where all that we remember carries us to the center of the drama which we have caused to emanate from our interior in the sole procession toward reflection, or completion, or connection; and it is here that mask and ceremony “come to light,” come to the points of reversal codified, for instance, in manuals and similarly proscriptive, deterministic containments of the one: the preliminary limits of the image are defined by the imagination underway, and where they connect in the ceremonial drama, whether neophytic or initiatory, from whatever dimension the information settles in, from whatever source derived, the location of cause and image is nonetheless simultaneous, where the workings-out of phase, sequence and doctrine are mutually explicit toward the numeral of discourse in its predilection to balance and discrimination. Now, whatever difficulty becomes apparent in the attribution “levels of consciousness” could become related or displayed (either) through the momentary designation “levels of discourse,” whereby a same or an equal could distinguish to the nature of the event in its differences and allowances.
So it is not exactly an aesthetic that is in motion, since any back-view would normally eliminate the specific energies of distinction which are in playing the movements of assembly, the retroactive is usually a barren and wholly new phenomenon and impinges on its causes only through such items as medium, image and memory and are substantially attached to event as adjuncts or appendices of calculation, rather like filling the possible with its own data, where “extent” manages through the discourse under consideration to be an adaptive procession of the margin toward extremes, always encompassing the definition or visions under consideration (“in view”) toward the restitution of balance which is continuant through means to origin and in which the organs of the constituency cooperate through reflection to cause and through cause to origin, where image of the world reads image as the world and continues through the consideration of the specific events as images of the context of life at play in a special circumstance or word.
Similarly, the retrospective “vocabulary,” in its aspect of sign and demeanor, necessarily temporary, where discourse and movement contain the universe of their specific separations, so what has come down as the analytic and specially denotative, for us, must stand in its tactical position toward the thing-in-its-domain, where abstraction means to include the life of its processions always toward the special sensations of observation and relief, where memory holds through its specific qualities and emotive absolutes (eg., nostalgia, love, geometry, etc.) toward the gestural and permanent identification of the world. The initial location, for instance “here” or “that,” comes to equate the shadow and the light-source in a composition first through associative and mythic substance but finally at the level of attachment or origin and center; as any geometry would testify, that first cause and final cause, poetically, are synonymous with image, where the memory of the event itself is adjunctive to movement and continuing. So it is difficult in a relational discourse to specify absolute terms for a vocabulary which necessarily effaces itself in its definitions.
The achievement, then, would resemble the thing that it is to become, would identify ghosts or shadows, then, as proscriptors of words to their targets or ballasts. The locale of the thing could allow a penetration from the “outside” to wage itself wholly in this enterprise of syntax and cooperation (what else is grammar?) whereby picture and thing are less visual than symptomatic of the age and time of their future, where they intend by all their means toward a definition of image which is hardly distinctive, less than hopeful but entirely real, where the desires for the world are transmuted in the course of seeing to a statement of being. Now there is nothing hopeful or tentative on my part in this, it is simply and utterly a matter of writing what is to be said, of determining a course an setting forth, through the nature of the disturbance to its cause and familiarity (the same) in the knowledge that any learning is identified by its styles and shifts, especially where they include the attentive and sympathetic toward their place.
But place is not exact. The learning is a responsive gesture toward situation and change, and it descends to energy to define the location of the image, first our of a convention and finally out of the thing itself in its domain and presence. “The problem of language,” then, is at once self contained and obvious, hence insoluble. But manifested movement carries syntax, where it is not after the fact, through to its success and practice, where what is retained by the retrospective is specially considered in its functioning to its station. The balance of initiatives, some of which are clearly dangerous, indicates the specific progress to the individual consciousness at its location, it is like that with respect to image, at that level of distinction; where color protrudes to dominate the field of attention and combination is more subtle, and the identification of the light or blank station of potential and definition carries memory to its extreme. So the business here, then, is to identify and set in mutual revolution several distinctions of same in order to permit the points, as it were, to incise their proper figures.
But the whole event is less clear here, the event of the writing itself which impinges through the intelligence of the choices which were made in the experiment itself, there are two times pressing forward in their attempts to mutualize, which properly descriptive (that is, no conclusion to be reached there, anyway) and what is central, centered, and specifically useful and especially to the nature of the discourse is to remind, dramatically, of the relation of the one to the same, in the pressure of style, in the medium of (of course: exchange) of the place around which revolves the memory of the two images, that’s the event, how to move from here to here, and where the specific and tactical information of the poetic is not movement but the precise and dimensional location of the center of speech, here! And that would be simple enough if the vocabulary weren’t continually effacing itself in its distinctions and placements, the autobiography of any painter. Especially that. The thing is to remember.
Now, what is a document in relation to the events of its creation; but that’s not entirely a definition. It is perhaps well to consider the uses to which thought offers itself, it is perhaps equally useful to consider the position of thought and song in their relations to rhythm and consciousness, sleep aside for the moment. The intentional repression of a progress of consciousness is insufficient, is too contradictory to a behavior, especially the one underway, to be even temporarily useful; the relation between repetition and the self contradictory hypnosis of the same is clearly accumulation, the buildup of energy for the sake of watching. Who watches the watchers? We all do, of course, and where we do, they are oblivious to the progress to which they contribute, but where the whole is clearly in relation to itself, these invasions of vocabulary and intelligence are not boundary disputes at all, there is no proper domain to motion, only its clear and legible tracings and evocations, like the problem of problem, of certain use.
A symposium of difficulties, directed by the will at play, a review. A work would consist in its play of forces, where our term style has means at its disposal to change pace in the interests of the energies available, where a display would constitute the specific reversals of intent, the categorical watching to which the discourse is submitted and approved, always in the advancement of difficulties. So the other would demonstrate its uses and proportions upon command, that the plastic inevitability of ideas would contain the secret initiatives of form out of which they are drawn, incised, geometrized, displayed, voiced, imaged, calculated and extended. So what we are always about is not necessarily only “this” or “that,” there’s the language to be accounted for, the temporality of medium in its accretion of contact which precedes the absolute of image, at our most familiar points of hesitation and reflection. But true reflection is less a reciprocity of exchange than a final and completed document of the event, the last connection which precedes “the lighting of the space.” We have entirely enough metaphors to precede the drawing of the chalk circle on the floor, and it is no matter at all ever to anyone who gets into the circle or who decides to get out, or whether he himself allowed the circle to be drawn around him, it is still, beyond all its variations, a cosmos that is defended against even the view of it that “is taken.” And the tenses of poetry are always tactically the present, the actual event in its generative possibilities, which it still is, definitely, in its arbitrary distinctions toward the place and name of what it wills to occur. Now that’s not simply the “present station of aestheticism,” because as we know it, it is finished, it has done its job, and where it is necessary to make certain rejections of form or of movement, styles of them, it is only because they are no longer at play. That’s not cynical presumption, there’s something in our responses to the absolute responses to the absoluteness of acts which has us “reading” them, when their synthetic uses are closer to motive than importance. The act to its uses, the event to its completion, both fragments of language which develop out of balance toward their music.
Or that the obverse of acts is their sudden transparency into context (life), and the rapid diminishing of attention from lapse to data, as the styles of memory, which is where style is, extend a language through its relatives toward the darkness that hovers at the edges of the event-cosmos. Enough is hidden in speech, so it falls to seeing to revive dimension through the style of acts to their locus of ceremony, and it is here that I fall into myself on the occasion of a celebration of contact, where all festivals emerge from the psychologies of time and utterance into their muscular and eventual destiny, where I am possessed by the information I have brought through the activities and preparations to the place of the play, in response, readiness, stillness and completion, not events, but of the play, where it opens toward the chalk circle and attains the parallel dimension of spece which is its actuality, where the knowing and the learning coincide in their sureness.
The constitution of acts is their assumption of cause in their very preparation, where it is entirely in the aim of saying to relate the scales and influences of propriety through a geometry or arrangement of energies in the image, where knowing and moving become the context of the energies of light and dark, where the size of things comes down to place and data, where completion relates through the skill of arrangement within the ceremony of choice, that as one is looking and seeing he is also the act he performs, where the space contained in the outcome of the event supercedes the measures by which it has “come about” or turned to itself for the final and plastic definition we assert in such reductions of purpose as “art” and “history,” where any lessening of the whole to its summary follows from and only from the attitudes of being-audience. Now there is nothing intentionally legible here, it is exactly what passes through the net, what we come to as information.
But the final accusations of purpose and demeanor which distinguish the nature of the thing from its own attitudes are the ranges of behavior to which one is subjected in his capacities as witness and co-author, it is where seeing completes the course of time to its own sequences of response while the activities of the subject follow the course of the view through all that can be assumed as “observable data” in the potentials of discrimination and allowance of a particular density or name. It is the swiftness of the motion which calls stasis forth, lodged as it were in the iconic registry of dreams, where all the assumptions relate to their cosmic dimension as the layers and striations of the subject’s own latitude, or what is called “here.” The specific density of the present reduces energy to its diversity and continual tendency to objectify or lodge in the “things of attention,” in the psycho-historical qualities of use and skill
For if one remembers and constitutes his image with causes or tactics, he can be said to be the subject of the image, and the skills and styles of the community develop precisely from the other side where the matters jof decoration reinforce the surface in its perpetual designs of elegance and sensation. But to break through the screen is not to enter darkness, nor to lose the topic orf consideration, it is simply to reduce to the centering of attention and the fact of the drama all that is not truly informative, to persuade all that is not subject to enter into the sphere of definition which allows relation to exist, and it is exactly here that the other half of the set displays, where act and event conjoin to their mutuality and end the sequence with the finality of a simple, gestural falling off. The nature of the transformation is achieved before completion, the residues of response constitute the passage or the transition “across,” while the subject arises through the variations of his particular costume to the necessities of action and stillness. While memory constitutes the style of the image with its particular legibility, the other arouses thought in its continuity of the registration of what is crucial to the outcome of the event, the coordinative releases of posture and act which complete to the final stations of attention and arouse the datum to their elementary circuitry, as points and orders of behaving through which the eventuating and celebrations derive their specific lessening of tension of which the definitions themselves have been contributory. The thing enters its content as participant and center, arriving at the particular surprise by the shortest possible trail, where there are no longer any distinctions to which the particular descriptions obtain in their actual densities.
What arrives through its hesitant names is the vocabulary of the sequence, the muscular and invisible domain of spatialities of the image, where it is totally public and absolutely available. The whole doctrine of secrecy must here be viewed as something more than a strategy, but as something of the incompleteness of argument, as a metaphorical utterance refuses to surface before it is needed in the history of the progress underway: the names of events do not ever occur, they are always simply the achievements they are, and in all that they become to the attention of the subject, never coerce or repeat with the solemnity of prescription. The point throughout of the availability of information lies more in a theory of accumulation and class than in the specific tendencies of individual cases, but through the visually inductive elegance of specific countermeasures, one can find the means of speech at hand.
What is possessed in such a disturbance? Only the facts available, far from “error” but in the relation to the visible spectrum of possibilities, as it were, where a shift of attention indicates the whole range of behaviors available to the subject, where the proper choice can be made without confidence or despair. So it is more in the realm of making decisions that the image comes to light, and the only hesitation worth considering is that which increases information, eg., accretive or perseverant awaitment. The final thrust of the real is hardly an explosion of unmitigated light or energy, those terms precede ease altogether. What we can notice in our responses to ourselves is the gradual and circumstantial continuing of ease through its very attributes, the one continuing through the one. Image is cause enough. The event is its memory, the intersection of thing and world, a relational ceremony of life and energy, conjoined in the progress underway.

Sacramento, California, 1972