Thomas Lowe Taylor -- TRIPWIRE POET

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Ride the fringe, be cool
Always be cool, avoid crowds
And hunks of others.

Stray the outer line of all
The stuff that stays before you;
Bamboo spikes two feet long
Around the heart
Say what cage you came from

Say you went up into the
Pacific northwest and
Tried to disappear; say
You wrote because
You had to
Dispel the demons of whatever

Say you went forever
A long blue line again

Say you bent the waterline
Around time's own craft

Here was driven destiny
From what fuel renewed

A blue quiet day the same
Nor what peoples the calm

Wind in whining overtones
Moaning the house's boards

What was spent? More than hours
New in their own compression, new.

Call what knows the hours from
within their own temperature

Make this now or not, make it matter
Here in the misty lanes of butter light

Upwind at the lines of this, smoking
In the heat's parts made up of song

Was it spinning within its own sense
Of belonging to the world at large?

Dimensions of which increased outer
Paling signs remaining noticed along.

Nated stones, there





Of what'd been announced

To the lighter day a

Heated thus what mar

Dr Stereo makes the loan
Hears clemency appealing

Bored bones

Late summer dactyls
Called apart
From what remains
To soon to doubt
The latening of the day

In sentences left alone
Beside the flowing stone
Here's your outer due
Long among the other two

Might you climate
Or hinge among the sign
What's laid away
Might soon retime.

This'll clough or stammer
Here in the newer time;
Thus their airs are not,
And the sour finally dies.

Thee ache or tempo, nine
Nothing went wrong, just went
You could see how

Just a minute
Floating mists among
There's a later, singing
Singing now along

Still at the later two,
A Tripwire poet
Coming in underneath
All the other jive

Stealth line affirmed
At the loner gulch.

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- Reflections on Gloss

***************


NOTHING IN PARTICULAR

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

REFLECTION ON GLOSS

Inside, my wooden, replicant heart splits again; “oh, this again.” Like a dickwad spent on too many summer afternoons in the city where the lights go on and off like lights. Your own movies have crept aside into the clay and then moved too far to say stop and spin. I’d been at the longer scenes no patriot moons are called like the surface of your smile when you think I’m not wasting my time writing on the back of my hand until it’s full of scripts and sentences. And when Pip falls out of the boat as it makes its way back to the mother ship after the heroic fight with the white whale, he is left floating on the blue ocean under a cloudless, blue sky, and loses the horizon line, goes mad, floating in the midst of blue nothingness. We need that line across the empty mind, a fathom or two to the left and sends no other. No less a baby in the womb, but a seed in the winds across a vacant planetal spin and sag.
So too, the gloss of skin in the mind is a barrier against what we do not know, & since what we know is everything, the shiny surface of the paint on the floor is what gives it its depth, as if the flat, grainy surface of the photograph competes with the image (whatever that is) made up of its molecules and terms for what we define as solid in the mists of plenty, in the midst of suspicion about grids and screens defying the very flatness over which they superimpose themselves. You skated on the surface. You walked upon the ground. There was a you to walk with along the way so there was no loneliness. In the dream, recall figured among the trees along the road. Everything is you in the dream.
In the surficial, silence reigns its usual head and shoulders above every other facet of indignation. Silents rain unusual beads and boulders among never mother faces of obligation. Your angry tools are featherd on the board in the garage where the bent wires poke from holes on the beadboard façade which is painted with little faces smiling sly intonations of doubt you’d imagined received and plotted from the hours remaining in your life to fill with some substances drawn from the so-called ‘natural world’ as it comes to you in dreams which are not.
The music from the other room covers the football sounds to my right and the confuser-hum at the tower in between. No cats live here any more. The garden has gone into winter’s remission, leaning into the sporadic wind and rain from off the ocean further on the right hand side of the picture. We are in the middle of it all, smoothing the covers on the bed with right and left hands. The dog now has the chair all to herself, now that I am engaged here at the keyboard. At least there is location. Scan-dew. Fonterama from the skanking boo.
I’d seek no plento in the ark of shame; hear this lingo and slight the offers one dune at a time, with a sack of spuds containing two bombs, left at the airport without a shipping tag. It is that uncertain now, and a massive paranoia becomes the realer real in between moments of panic and superstition. Surely, an ignorance subscribes to the sense that everything is out of control, even in the sentence, even in the moving hand that writes and then moves on. Even as love makes you lonely. How’d your ship run aground?
Well, it’s a sly dimension that marks your spot in silent disregard, nor evenings on the harker spud and plento, no mister in the monks and seasons where you’d cleaved her sudden wasps in senses muff’d and spun at showers held below the arms and snug. Park a due, loot a spider’s nests are stuck up under the overhang on the purple boards you painted not too long ago, an ark of stolen moments in the daily flame to mark the days and nights again you sing too loudly in the dark, staving off sensations of struggle and gasping for air as you march slowly slower stopped at the intersection of wait and walk.
The blank has no surface even in memory, even in time, as it were, not declared a definition nor a state’s estate for reclamation and fervor—yours in the unmentionable aspect derided into pressure or stance or humanity in errors of its own regard made impenetrable and indefinite, now fathom that. Like six feet under; and yet the glow of the mask lies between you and the reflection of your own face in the very mirror which makes the room seem twice as large as it is, even in the fading hours of the century which has only now begun to be borne among us, furious clatter of ignorant missives thrown around like lard, like broken, rubber hands holding hackeysack eyeballs to kick and spin around the room in another empty game.
Tough nuts in your loogie, the sheen of inattention recalls the form of the question in the back of your mind as if no other. The house rocks. The moon slides between you and me. Shiny and profound, a good idea only masks the questions which gave it rise in the mind’s eye and song with simplicity, with grandiose proportions which allow it distinction and implicit definitions on yr facet. Or are you reminded of something circular—ouroboric and distinct in competition with release and renewal. This would be it in the here and now of asking where you are tonight, sweet Marie. I played the record and sang the same words in the spaces between the words coming from the speaker, a duality and duet with the hidden singer in the electronic box. No one listened again. It was another day in another town, long ago and hopeless in retrospect to unleash the terms for relief you’d imagined somewhere out of town and up into the mountains now covered with ticky-tack housing and tip-up mall walls covering the valley with anonymous faces in the crowd, soot stained storefronts, smarmy longhair hippies stroking and holding onto each other at the end of the age, cozy in their victory over the forces they deride from the safety of their own empty lives, at least they’re together, you think, and drive out of town.
Microbial domain of surficial penetration of the gloss and the sheen, driven upward into view by the nothingness beneath it, shit floating to the top of the soup, if there’s a disease, you’ve got it. Behind the screen, the President strangles his generals and their children, smiling and stuttering in a language which makes you only laugh and gurgle in your own spastic fury at the denial it all represents for the hope that would have made it all bearable, beneficient, a future without fury or dread. Even that is denied you, even as it is sold at the mall in small doses and packages of convenient, personal size.
So the hour declines you and refuses to be interviewed without a witness present, not a lawyer but a savior. ‘Hah,’ you stutter and slide away into the shadows of a life you’ve retrieved from the machine at hand, in hand, out of hand, out of mind and off the page.

LIFE IS A NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE

News at eleven. The man accused as a sniper in many recent killings is acting as his own defense, apparently with the court’s blessing and with a somewhat distant relationship with his court-appointed attorneys. Now, he is denied the opportunity of introducing evidence about his own mental competency because of his refusal to submit to a psychological evaluation immediately after his capture and subsequent imprisonment. How would he question himself on the matter of his sanity, and would there not be some kind of ironic resonance to the questioning as he moved from the position of question to the status of answering questions from himself about whether or not he is mad. Would he seek to prove or disprove his sanity and in either case what would be the outcome if he were judged by his own questioning to be mad. Would his madness discredit the questioner?
Locally, the Reverend John Mann, a kind of everyman in his name, a retiree in the stages of Alzheimer’s deterioration, has died suddenly. I painted their house two months ago, and he was an energetic man, not the least incompetent in his immediacy to the task, although his wife seemed irritable with his condition over which she had been witness and caretaker during this time. He know where the ladder was and helped me retrieve it from the pegs on the wall in the garage, although he had some difficulty covering the windows with the masking tape which would not stick to old newspapers. Who wouldn’t? She spoke of how he asked the same questions over and over, but since I was there only two weeks I barely noticed. He did ask me several times if I read mysteries, since he had many volumes to share, but unfortunately I don’t read such material. Somehow the death of “the man” sits in my craw uneasily, another irony
And anecdotally, the story persists in my memory of the Carribbean sorceress who invited all of her friends to her wake. They were confused as she was still breathing walking talking and all the rest, yet they all showed up on the appointed evening to celebrate her live-in death, or something like that. Oddly enough, her coffin rested on the floor in the middle of her living room. They all partied long into the night, and as the evening drew to a close, she gathered everyone together and in some manner announced that now she would leave them. She got into the coffin, lay back, crossed her arms across her chest and then died. End of story
Somehow, I am reminded of Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities, with its parallel plots of the madman in the neighborhood killing people at the same time as its somewhat generic hero himself descends into some kind of synchronist reprise of his own situation; as well as the unhappy moment at the end of Herman Hesse’s The Bead Game when our narrator and hero comes to a mountain pool of water as the book ends with the statement, “He dove in.” Period, end of story.
All of which sticks us on the quick and the dead, the living and the dying and the moment of capture where we evaporate into our own solipsistic nothingness, our personal ‘passing beyond’ beyond which, you might say, there is no passage and hardly any beyond to be shared, unless the vagaries of the various books of the dead incline you to imagine a passage into the anteroom of a John Edwards show on television so that you can whistle to your dog through the vanes in the ceiling where the cool air from the other world navigates itself onto the television screen in your house at eleven p.m. on the SciFi channel between commercials for organic erectile fertilizer or opportunities to refinance your home, betting against your own passing, which hardly seems to be a good bet at all. Yet the synchronists insist that the white cloud streams upward into some destiny and passage at the end of your day.
Not that I doubt that at all. If you haven’t been to the game you can’t report the score. Beyond these questions, the nagging insistence on messages from outer space becomes a gigantic folklore in the medium of the message, and the fictions from stage screen and radio as they used to say, seem to perpetuate a vast and dynamic cargo cult of bamboo airplanes, tonalities from the top of the devil’s watch tower, an aptly named erection of stone in the middle of the flat screen of the northern plains. Surely the perpetrators of these empty saddles in the old corral are selling ten pounds of shit in a three pound bag, for in the absence of any messages from outer space, as they call it, there is surely no evidence for perpetrating these frauds which only encourage us, deus ex machina, that whatever we do, the skyhook will descend from above with a bag of donuts and a hot latte. I’m not laughing.
A more responsible attitude would not cave in to the absence of any proof that becomes the proof that is not there at all. We might have some respect for the fragility of the atmosphere we breathe, a fragility which becomes more apparent as we learn more of its bare reckoning. Nor would science with its statistical probabilities usurp so easily the evidence of the eye and the mind, if there is any mind there at all. The coincidence of our sacred unity might become more respected if we accepted the fact that although we’ve been going to western union for as long as we can remember that no one has answered the call at all. At all. Thank you very much.
Nonetheless, we have taken photographs of invisible material (?) and found evidence for whatever we’ve sought to invent for the comfort of our brief spin at the controls. Everyone writes a poem in moments of abject despair, as if that were the solace at the end of the tunnel. People are even known to have read poems in moments of what is called ‘spiritual crisis.’ But to engender a life out of poetry or to dedicate one’s self to poetry is once again a state of complete depravity and waste. The rubber hand on my desk holding the hackeysack with an eyeball painted on it nonetheless becomes a leitmotif for my own doubt in some archaic resonance which I cannot escape, though I photograph it as if it were a real hand, severed from the body of the world’s poet, designed by my ten-year-old grandson as a respectfully inspired yet somewhat mischievious imitation of my own strange preoccupation with hands and eyes in my own work. The moving hand writes and then moves on, another poet wrote. And the eye that sees is the I that seize, if you get my drift. And so I drift onto the plane of inattention to catch what’s in the space between the words, the wind blowing between my eyes where a hole in my head to let it in is.

anabasis, Oysterville, Washington, 2003

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- IN MUSTH

***************


Fallen markers collide, apart from decisions made, you are here in the midst of other wagons described from nothing, but solid among the terminals of who they are before you move, nothing is clear from them to us, the ministers of the soapbox movie and the eloquent satyrs closing in from all sides is simply too much.

Other moves too soon described are closer here than somewhere else, but call them down again in the central issues before the table are laid out, laid back and laid upon in the burning hours before anything is said too soon to move and too late to learn, he hears them calling back and forth against the tides again.

More pressing materials are kept in the outer foils from tides woven outer scales too soon and then against the roving manners they call out against your chest a wooden hand in gloved magnitude and don't be silly along the waving hands from shore to shore these attitudes are more or less overheard in a stiff mix.

This is it, and the slower hours are off the mark, to let them off too easily is more an insult than any lesson one might learn from, but capped with intensity and an attitude you don't soon forget; light in the heart's woe your own angles call out for more, and let her slip away to get to more important things.

This is your own calm beginning, back and forth you slip the angles from easier to more difficult angles of attack, and bear down with a consciousness that a bell is ringing: Another day is described by what was omitted from the other weeks' overdrive calculations are too soon left to decay into other mortals' ire.

There are other ways to move quickly between moments, the only others calling out are your own relatives clinging to reality, moved from within to expositions of doubt and love, called into play by the play itself as more than you might allow them to have in inner marks laid aside, and then culled from all that follows.

Or do you remember anything at all beyond the claim of light and dark to the intensities of your perception of the wind moving slowly through your city-scaped head, clinging to anything you might remember as between the real and the not-so-real; what else is there to say in the angles of what follows color to its airs.



This is the hour, and passing again too soon to make anything clear enough is the hour itself markered out along these waving ambers, fly-specked houses clear the deck from winches donating hours along the opening stretches of memory, of the one that got away and the long arms of darkness calling your name again, now.

Concluding elements are kept aside from boxier carts your yellow days too soon against the others they have met them singular terms for anything that keeps this clear and simple, you are here and kept from the others by a sinister plot to make you whole, and the hours are light between your lips, as words, as light.

Still, it moves between your own motives and what passes for light along the sighs, a movie still and slow which becomes another slight remark in the great chain of being who you are again, and still moving slow against your own sighs to speech, and cling to them as last and flow along a folded thigh again.

* * *

Moving lines remit. Scores are kept aside from memory, and the
outer terms become light. His hours weep between her eyes; a spot
is here and there, but left alone along the wavy lines of manufacture in retrograde description he hears them wailing and then leaves to meet the others in the darkening skies bereft.

At sudden, the hours recall your name to them as has and lean into the wind with your bones aching; there is no more booze to the linear attributes, but your own scalings are soon enough to hear what passes in the garden for another song rising from loud speakers to make the party become another empty day filled up.

You are here: Today is the name of the rest, and passion clings to her like the odor you carry with you in definition of spent time; or you hold grey hours against the marks and pleasures you have left aside for someone else to call yours or theirs or nobody in the light to air-out the motives, claimed or other.

This marks the spot where events take place in the memory of man and the history of the planet scaling forward in climates too numerous to be flat like a diction or removed like an unwelcome caller on the phone, to them discharged and skipped afloat the underwear is stiffened from too many times you crossed the draft.


Or hears them clutter forms in the moon's own disturbances too soon to have a name for anyone else to hear, but them as has, so let to the scaler moons your own rapt attentions have slipped into fathomic density the oiler sheep slings headier scoops toward red patterns the lesser of which has your face on it.

Or would them as clutter then sling and fold the tools of any day now the song the rest resting in your hand all done and ready for the freezer to be set up foreign antagonisms another day the longer scoops have this as a heavier loom to meet them angling in for the kill, bag in hand, net in hand, the scoop, hook, a drive.

The story is a deeper, more elemental description of the attitude of clouds moving too quickly under or in front of the screen, as attention declines to move beyond these definitions of lust and ankles twisted toward the loomer densities his own calculations are kept between you and me, the rest is another doom of light.

Set as mode, moved, outer, spin to center at control. The rest decides to move, term of, light of, the rest of resettlement in the mists of platform-delight, other terms for turning out into the cooler airs of what you have before you is still another document left too long in the air to be read at all, skimmed.

This to go, as the terms have for it another meaning too loose to be described, but laid out along the sidewalks of the city in some climate of otherness, the ringing in your ears deserves to be answered, but holding too closely to the tongue in hand is a bird's bush beneath your silent features marking the air along.

Foremost as thought is, another climate distinguishes itself between here and now; other terms are too silent to reveal their informative predispositions too quickly for feathers beneath the arms and legs of the bodies on the ground, fester and calm, and how they are aligned on axes from north to south and back again.

But here is the silent center of light which becalms your spirit from the beginning to the end and waits a long time between the hours to remove the angle of disturbation from beneath her coat on the ground, a cleaved surface, how you are clothed, the other times you wept aloud, and waiting too long to eat are many.

The hours go aloft and sudden. It is too soon to tell. It is also another poem left underfoot to stick to the heel of your shoe like old gum, and waiting in the closet, the whole family calls out for recognition and moodier hours for reflection on the whole game of that which has passed us by too soon and left.
But you'd still be this thing-of-the-earth, reeling forward with thoughts which occur nowhere else, but ravel at terminal discord, the open rafters smoked-out and leaned along the score, your own history is a book for itself, and leaving another room, too soon would be the declaration of defencelessness, an attribute, calm.

But you are still here in the solitude of your own repressions, and whomsoever seeks must find, although the reward is not always the crayon you imagined, and unforgiveness is still an attribution of the less-than-calm who forge these valleys in a likeness not before seen on the face of the earth, but not here.

This would also be an allowance for diction to do its thing, in among the lesser-known clients for indistinct markings, thigh to eye they hit the tongue action and leave her gasping on the floor like a fish out of water, it is too soon to tell whether this therapy will flesh out and remind us of original births here.

Would as ought, but heavier than nought, the markers collide and create patterns of effect too glib to be communicative, but none are less than perfect, and the alignments are as precise as you might imagine them to be, held too soon to be identified, but let alone in the classification of themselves, an air, a rock, a day.

And as you are this hesitation in the cosmic realm, you might also decide to stop too soon to finish what you were doing, if that is any inclination towards which the rest dictates in its own pressures to being, as that which is also new has somehow been prefigured in the anticipations which give rise to it.

Closer angles reveal that there is nothing to see. What you are is another angle worth repeating, although the playful aspect is something more or less infuriating to them as have it down, as against them as miss the boat and drool along too slow to know and too fast to get caught, the wringer of life, caught in it.

So you see, and miss the point, but too soon is not the point, and what is missed occurs also in its own time, to mark it, to let it fall where it may, to fold apart these terms we have for supposed release from servitude as an aspect of passing beyond, as what you see is less than perfect, but has songs to share.

This angle is too severe to identify anything but the text which has been omitted as a functional part of its meaning, and when you leave all that out, what's left is the bowl and not the soup. I'd ask them all to leave and count my change before catching the bus to the next town, elongated sentences gradually have meaning.
No, there is no beauty to it, only a persuasion to definition which is not particularly something to be seen, more or less a kind of identification which possesses the nature of the thing itself in its posturing and reoccurrences toward which all descend in the repetition of life itself, a security, a knell.

Beyond classification, there isn't much else to detail about the revenge aspect of what passes for the rule of life; and in between these markings, there aren't many left who remember what was there in the first place, more of an exercise to memory's accuracy than a delimitation of the perfect into its own time.

But hours go by and nothing is sent on to the more angular distances met at shores from the lesser days you left aside too long to mark then singular, profane, longer lines hear them solitary, forgotten remnants of the planet's party-time and hangover, the moving day when the furniture got left behind.

You, too, are here too soon to be reminded of the eloquence with which you left the arena and marched into the capitol barefoot, breasts exposed to sunlight, legs wrapped in the skins of animals, a movie camera went off to the left, heard some rumors, and eventually believed in the magic kingdom and Mr. Greenjeans.

Now there is nothing left to remember; at the verge and measure, there are no other marks to be made in the history of evenings, and whomsoever, as the saying goes, again, hunts without a guide, surely gets lost; having done so, the question arises, what to do, and sometimes it gets answered and sometimes it does not.

Now the hours release and turn, as outer names the rest do thrive or turn them outer claims have marked these terms "another" and culled outer coils the rest remove at term and furniture, his hours become the very airs you measure through and through to be the same, in five or six the lives have termed success or not.

But who you are is still here in the marks a firm or fashion, used in the finance of light to which all become, the rest is cleared without to be another light falling between your own eyes has the line fathomed at six and seven, you release the doves into her eyes the rest goes like this, and moves along again.

You are this hour termed a life beyond and threaded out to line the streets with gold as has, so let, and become the rest in between them in the mists of passion to which man is given, as has them linger into the fashion to which they all subscribe, underneath a character, there is another, lesser being.
And this holds, too, and hears them moving in between them less and less they are these lines becalmed fools release them in the airs you've left them in among, as grouped, as lights along the telescope made of radio waves hears the heaven's as light, and measures the developmental core the rest aside and clinging.

And as this is the hour you've become, here is the closure and rain of which we spoke: You are this hour in the lines left along the highway, and no cars revolve from left to right, the eastern distances are colored red and white, and who he is reminds you that nothing has passed this way for a long time.

But light would go like that, and pass on into more forgotten realms with the spread of night among your own countrymen left aside without pity or friendship, and let the words speak for themselves, as they do, and mark them further on than that, as has to let them in in the middle of the line, to go forward.

And this is the time to pause, waiting in the wind as her hair turns as resonance and terminal, the lighted globe which has as a name the furthering of the light, and lines which go outer are first claimed as the nature of one's own game in the field of action, he hears the claims and utters forward calms the day.

But the light of which you might remind has no outer coils, but lives in the realm from which the lesser terms are made, your own angles descending into the forward cabin, his terms made of light, and the construction a lighter play of plenty in these hours which pass into the darkness, makes of them something new.

But to disagree has no firm tallow in the mind's heart, and substance of the one becalms her stutter from the foment at the mouth, your own speech has claims to be beyond doubt in the formation of light, your own space lining the outer sphere without name or distance, calming the living hours with light.

And to passion in our midst, these realms have made us whole, in the spirit of our longing made into matter the names of which pass beyond them marking one and two to clear a day or two into the future, then cling forward with an intensity seen only in the books, on the books, on the rest or resting out, term and sign.

And as light would pass on into the realms of disaster from which there is no return, then the time would bend outward from more distanced angles, to become a focus of the one into the many, where you have it shiny and new, you have it mental and both, you have it before you as something which never came this way before.
Time is a line into the being of your own heart, beating as it does, and space, marked from the life you have, without design or value, and passes into the cosmic realm without trying to do so; time is the value of her eyes, and space is the light between figures on the table, drawn by a passage through another mind.

But to pass would be another day's easing into the spaceport, and having lunch with them, a conference call neglected on the screen, another line broken between here and all foreign cities, an agreement made between all parties in agreement, but denying all parties in disagreement, have these hours intense and sad.

Or heave them up along the dirt aside or outer, and heave them out into the darkness without waiting for a reply, the dirty scum have flipped the doorway onto its side, let the birds out, and gone to another planet with the goods, leaving only expectation and revenge as emotions for the remaining inhabitants to share.

From whole cloth is such a fabric made; diction and claim they dig into the foremost angles within your own terms made plain, but held out for another day or two to make its statistics into the food for thought which such a soup reveals in its nakedness, slipped between the hours like a message from someone else.

Or would you clear the decks in sudden term and claim, the hours made from something resembling the day you left town and then came back, all the farewells made phony by the indecision in your style; held aside from the easy glance of the others, you welded retreat into the advances that you made, and held fast for today.

And as this would be the end of something new, you might clear the decks of all that listens in the dark, holding onto the elevated calm of tomorrow's heroes without indication or respect, holding them at bay with the oddness of the terminal itself, and leaning forward with a benign word on your lips, waiting again.

But you hit the blocks without waiting for the gun. And hear the motives clear across town, spoke and calm, roof and gun, pie and sled they pair up unwilling to be left behind in the zoo of phrases, caged by infinity and willingness, defeated by respect and our own desire to continue, it is hopeless, this hope.

Or you'd clear the air without moving, giving first from the left and then from other distances too profound to enumerate: What begins in the heart continues outer, reeling and stuttering into belief or oblivion, but above all, her name is left on the inside of your hand, like a print, like a hand, or even like a name.
And another day would call out for release, for clearance, for another distinction from the profound, to be left to its own devices, to be left alone to catch the fine points of what's left to think about, you'd be the one to clear out and make the bed before you go to work, working all day, coming home, like that.

But the rest goes aside too easily, and you follow a rap like that, one thing after the other, piecing it all together in some stitch of mental acuity, a test to see whether you're paying attention or not, moving within your sphere of action, marking time and moving very, very slowly toward what was there before.

And a good summary would include all sorts of profundities abutting the more particular resonances of "an argument" toward which all progresses with the necessity of fate, becoming in the rhythms of its process a paradigm for attention so compelling that attention itself is changed in the manner of its style.

And so we say, "a style is also a behavior" and "not to confuse a thing with its manner" declaring adventure to be a prize and not a claim, and to include detachment in the lexicon of attributes to which attention pertains in its own quest for perfection.
Not a day passes without such longing in the heart.

Unpublished stanzas

Fallen markers collide, their substances unmet or turned without semblance or recall of outer foils turned again against the rest without any other terms for it or anything else remembers-out at his other signs re-enacted for something new to sail between the hours at something far worse than you imagined, as new, as told.

Liking, however, identified word-wise, on former gossip of light the rest rescuing older patterns of recall the closer angles out from lighter coils spun angle-like his farms and shatters still a wept solitude and any anger recoils the foam and sensation of his fingers firing up at coal and width, a smooth tongue sliding in.

At smooth, a further sail would claim inner forms to be alone within, but set far against the light turning one-on-one the rest is still here in the frame, clear color and the sign designed like this again, you are still here still, and resting today is like the rest and settling down to go the long run up the hill.

Set, sediment, claim the monitor his foolish whim foregone in the light conclusions bent, rapt and inert, his dross is still foil and charm to the auspicious occasion in the speaker driven into hearing by the charge you make against consciousness to be real, and hold on responsibly while the building shakes down, intense.

And still, as markers go, the rest resides herein and terminal, but set one against its' time to be anew the thing inside and made a stiller calm than you'd recognize, and still perhaps the newer markers made collide and part and calm all at the same time you are still this term for what is going down into these lights.

For this and that, you are here among them one time made of light into the substance that you are, and made again the moon and time of what this is is still a newer term for what was not said in the time you spent inside tense and claim, sentence and calm, the outer extremities described in simpler terms than this, and held.

Or at more open signs, there are some others to behold inside the moments of passion and longing, there are some signs to behold where someone passes into you keeping alive flame and song, there are passions too mute to be expressed, but which enlighten as they come closer, waiting to be made into thought and feeling.

Or are you this free, to stay aside and watch the passage of monuments become another person in the waving afterglow of flop and sign, the open door is also open, but you'd skip it out and slink singly there are the solitary hours stretched into color, or made into something allowing the remainder to have a place.

But less angular substances remind of collision and release, how spumes flatter forth into resigned particulars, the rest reside elsewhere in the passageways, or how you stir the broth determines the rest of the soup: Intense and real, he moves the days around the globe without uncertainty and without pausing.

Holding patterns, a loose patrimony of opposites, and clear internal manipulation of the codes is what reveals to the careful eye that something is amiss in the entire system of oppositions, if there is not release from this passive bondage, something will blow, making spinning moves through the crowd, sudden apparition.

You are this: Another moon clinging to its sky, or left aside from easier distances you'd call me in and out the same, a rafter
in its guises has no clearer realm than to call or move the same as what went before, and as you clear the decks with concise motives, the allowances are kept aside from lunging out again.



Play it off. These moving signs are clearer pools than light itself stuffing lips the creepier notes are slip and sing, at dusk, at more the scooped wedge cancels former tunes away at least and smoothing in to say, aloft, the doorways cluttered into something precise but went away too soon to be a dialogue.

You'd skill it, finished former and the lighter brights have the day too soon to call another name for what went on too long to be described here, but calls out, calling, here and there the same is met among them one after the other, and then falling off too easily to measure, you are how and thus, the moon, the rest.

He ships or motors on, the salient terms are "here" and "thus" at or after the markers have collide and smug to their densities, or at least have made the gesture toward cooperation; this is too quick and too swift to be measured, but the rest is stiff swill to clutch or gather, rescuing thereafter so-called somewhat said.

But slipped ahead, the slightly sheepish glance is revealed toward seamier attitudes, and the rescuing provinces are kept at bay like-minded individuals gathering in the same interest, as if the fields coded-out the more minor attractions having little to do with them, at least as far as it goes in more intense regions.

Getting high on it, too, is something of a delusion, but you cast your own scores as soon as you might remind them in the sooner realm, closer attributions of the one, the many and the same: He hears them one by one, as if arguments in the minor key were somehow left from former times to clear the air he left behind.

Or as far off as you could get, this is the nervous and disjunct individual you cleared the time and left again, his honor and the scrappier days were just left ahead to become what they might, while ignoring the unjustified margin against which moral doctrines were measured, for the songs were too complex to test.

A mark for the other, not held against them any longer than you'd heave it forward in intense positions measured, stopped, calculated and then ingrained without piety, the legions demeaned no more they call them up into the headier regions, but they are left along with their rice fields blooming sky blue signs among.

Heaved into the fray, they shut them one after the other into these kinds of things you remember mentioning to someone slowly, in a movie, or a dream; and how the manner of the motive was somewhat, uh, what you'd expect in there after about twenty-five pages, you find that there is the door and it is opening slowly.
A gloomier reticule is kept within earshot, or shot like glass to one side the easier realms do remit, as substance and the noose combine to excellent combination the looser claims to tell and do, but wreath them sullen response her eyes a rough red time in the airs around your head removed too easily, but left, but left.

This as spoon and tine, the wretched collar hangs its double line against the ringing line he keeps ahead of it too swift to calm them outer lines the rest decide to keep it up, there is a phrase hanging on the mark to ship it in to rest, to rest it single said the terms are met; swift, sure, sung the motion in the air is up.

At return, the sedgier wicks are skipped around, held, removed, and finally sent along into other processes, a random action from the realms of dusk, his eases slipped, formed, matter of the right stuff has it here and there the same as motives left aside for them to say one or the other will do just fine, and wait.

A great potential slipped in among them one after the other has it quick to say, quick to stay and the rest resting-out after a hard day at the wraiths your own line send descending calm despair your heart reeling out from all of it too soon to smooth her eyes have the glow of fate into your own sensations made.

As this is the reakier realm, you hold it at bay your harbors closed to all others, but met in the open hours as they hold it open for you to say this is the good life and I'll make it up on my own the days is such that you know nobody every laid a hand on me, just like that for democracy in action is being left alone.

I'd watch it say "what for" but mark the rest another clue to have held on so long only to let go would be a little frustrating but kept among them deciding to stay but not knowing exactly the why or how of it is still a new experience to let them in on a great secret is just to stay around and let it fly alone along.

That's the handle on your sides too smooth to clear the decks for action is still a smooth line on the saddle from too many markers in the air a truth to hold onto is a line among others, waiting to see and hoping for a vision to cull you forward into the light being bent into new shapes by the clearer molds alone among.

The staler regions are secretive allowances whom you gift their sailings too clear to wave against the rooms a slight substance dangling before the eye you met them one after the other on quiet afternoons and under trees kept from tears and fears by the right hand on your shoulder shooting from the lip and not seeing.
Mate and sign these frailer terms have kept them one to the other, a plaugier streak is held in contempt by them as has to them as let to the forward sides met at calm and signed into deed by the weepier solitudes she waves them singly or fashion, the slow cadence of the piano makes you think about light, or song.

The wheat calling down wave upon wave under the wind hanging at the eye you call it a dawn of seed, or a flowing time of habitude, and the light waves watery columns in the light of her eye the metaphor grown of process a lighter day would allow you all the food you want, and then some, to clear it up too soon.

And that is the day you went too far, scheming for yourself and no forgiveness for the others; no, you have to stop, have to become human and join the flogging squad in the anteroom, at teacups in their swollen tongues fairing up the inner sleep without sensation for the motives for their crimes against light.

Like this, a smoother line among rocky shapes would call you a delightful find, a smoother guide than others had, a reference point for what came before and after; and that design is still a kind of motive for being is not the same as giving up and being silent, is not the same as waiting in the wings for the light.

To change. That is the question you pose momentarily between words the skill and silence too much to contemplate, the line too long between light and dark, and still you call the day your own, caring too little for them as if to let them linger in their own sweat, sailing smooth lines from life to death without pity.

These are their own lines left lingering at the edges of the sea.
How you met them wailing one distraught sentence is kept at least this far from the rest of the day you swept aside all doubt and came into this overt resonance the day after the night before you kept it in too long to cover the earth, painted, smoothed after.

Ore this shaft and palm, his angle smoothed at the ceiling fan and substance the glue of white and opaque hanging-from-the-lip is the name she gives to it and makes protein a dinner of the throat-like tunnel of love up-ended right up and kept from the rest by release or qualm, holy city of light, her name, as here.

The unsettled life is worth unexamining. You'd make it one time and then keep the rest for something new, left along too long is this air we breath up and down the silent tongue reams her out too long to rush ahead and singing, long and short of it is cut from, delivered-out and made again, you are a rough edge ringing.
The fives rest, rescuing doubt from the followers has them by the throat releasing song from its destiny, or has you hanging on every word, the same as saying one thing after the other is always a surprise, but leaving out the rest in between is still a trick too easy to leave alone for the commericals, right here.

This passed, too, and met them hanging one in another's eye, and what told it to scrape along was the totality of the rest as you might perceive it, alone and slowly turning, or somewhat among the others in their densities: The formula became alone along among to those who knew him, singular moving substance of others.

Therein terminal of discord, you do have this heaviness between your eyes, there is a spot of sensation, result of having two eyes, I guess, but nonetheless a stereo nutrition station, for the focal point of reference for the two halves of the brain, an illusory centerpoint painted with an eye spot of blue and gold.

A falling offspring of doubt, released cloudlike into something new and unfamiliar, however you meant it to become another newer daylike formation in the mountainscape of your mind, unmapped territory has this familiarity to it that cannot be ignored, and as nothing does not communicate so too the rest falls into place.

Here, you must wait along the line to become some other, resting in place and watching the dayglow of less intense monuments returning from other destinies to their rightful place in the brain, and as you are drawn from one side to the other, there does the alliance make known that you are coming along again.

And here, the more singular instances of light are reminded of the hours passing slowly making more of the rest than of what follows into the air no meeting but the more released doctrines of action which polish out the motives of those who follow into the railer terms made whole again in color and time removed.

Or you'd make them wait for the answers until there are some to tell you how the rest rescues them from here to there making no signs for the rest to follow out and hold the landscape down again you tell them one by one that there are no others inside the tense and fragile substances which make them into light.

Still, these hours are longer than measurement, still contained by what has come between and left them still along the side, contraband and scheme denied, the flower falling still at markers still collide and seem to be another day falling through too fast to become anything else but what is passing through you inside.
As here and thus, the markers do remind of red and gold, the sense and pattern of what follows in the mind is an indication of the remainder of the followers holding firm to the sign throughout the loom and plain they fall forward pattern and sign the open door is also made of the light you met inside and held.

And still they fall too soon to become anything else the names of which have passed throughout the day to hold and move them inside the day is still soon enough to be the space and mark you held them slow aside the markers waving through color and time to be these things of the heart's own smooth and time, you are, thus.

Past this cool reminder you have angles staid and foreign left along the colored rocks without indication or fault they rely too swift another calm willow bends into something leased from the hours by them as have the night is blind to say throughout the same way moving through these lines as slow along the rest again.

Would make another substance out of it to become something new again, and waiting along the way is not something you do every day but hold out from the specifics of what you are the same day every other time is met in blue or red edges kept apart by the same design which is made of this hour the waves are turning in.

Less reclusive terms are made of this air against the waves met again from something to this hour made again to do a bidden thing is held apart from them as seem to see the lines along the way you held it still too long to be these things again and wait against the hours met unwilling tides are kept again this way.

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- THIS WOULD BE HERE

***************


Nor move beyond other times have swept your own signs along. This is the neon spasm, or furthered hours my own song. Here’s my detail in your airs, go to later spires, but holding here is soon enough a name for you to call your own. I’d sorted things out, but not belonged exactly into the roomer calms; a softer skin is held by sign and line your own airs removed. But still, here is the newer life you called aside as yours, and met your own beloved in the shorter lights, these at the anchor hours.
* What’s not? The pleasured hours remain at still remiss--as you are forward or headed in, these specific shots are still one after the other, but not reminded at all, nor held nor moved. In the sailor hour, the sheeper spread reflects and holds aside. This is the nomenclature of what was said. The door. The other moon, but still holding in the less internal hours, your own anchor another room aside and floundered out, spun aside and fortuned or sailed away. A smooth surface resides here, and in other times, the also-ran holds his own reputation up for view, for vision, maybe. A lamer spoke, a floundered pier. Shots for one particular school or for a newer guise.
* In advance of what, you might ask. Is it over or is it the tale told by the man who holds the check for dinner? Post-modern what? That’s what I ask. In the folds of your cloak, it is always now, and you can’t be post-now, it’s rather like buying your future with the arms race, give me a break! I shudder to ask, nor even to smell the roses in their own habitat. It’s eclat, you might say, in line with the tale told by another. Maybe you’re the idiot. Well, I wouldn’t wonder, with things the way that they are now, you know. Shifted spasms, no epistemological bullshit stuffed or suffered--no, it’s too darned associative or maybe reflective to be imagistic or even magnetic. Why fool around with disclaimers? It’s not too late to take a stand. On something.
* Morning. Move over, baby, you’re lying across the entire bed. Not too late now to watch the clock in the non-hours when you don’t have to get up. Just try not to remember, anything at all, sailing down the looner dunes in particular density, saying nothing at all and removing doubt from your own movie. Techno shorts are sailed away, poetry a line into the future, or something like that. Stay soft, I’ll bring you to life. No, it’s a rotor claim shedding out the later calm. In no space but here is the dragon laid to rest in his otherness denied nor said from here to there, it’s a fortune in the desert in unclaimed diamonds, but not too soon to say “This is not the movie I paid to see, you know, paid good money,” or something like that. Not prose, exactly. Nor voices in the gloom. It’s the free fall from one room to another that spells the cosmic fruit to fall uncoincided in the temple of your own lobes, and here’s some real shit.
* Flux betide, a foam, a cancellation or remiss strutter--she’s aloft and flying, here you are your own doom, flooding sense with dotted light and flame. I’m a doubt, you’re the sky.
********************
* This would be here, or not. I’m a spasm and not tolled nor shaled cliff to say you are the one in between me and darker hours we won’t mention again. Nor death nor calm deliberation stills the motive in your own light, and as you are called ahead into your own life, you might get off your ass and try a little courage or experimentation, not just the cool revival of dusk in its own sentiments. That’s far too removed, you might say, to be considered beyond something to just, uh, spend your time on. On.
* Not a sharp line. Here is the skiller realm, but shorted outlines are slow or fast, according to nothing. Pure consciousness in its descriptions would bely prose its familiarity, its willingness to discontent in the pose of accuracy, its familial destiny or posture. They knock the giants off the map and go on into the world serious. Hear the other hours say “Now is the time!” and utter the wooden screams of the people on your front porch, still wearing polyester suits, moonies of the spiritual fold, collecting quarters into silver bags and heaving your implosions into the other sphere with measured gestures, the rehearsed implications of the drone, the robotic folder of shirts at the laundry; but here’s your friend in spine, the latter in her folded mists....
* The non-bind music floats your anchored hours into the mental space of light itself. It’s a good day for saying before you speak at all, the mooner mists are good enough for me, but not no dew on the flasks of the never moon. A darkened sky, but still your eyes ahead of me, sailing into the ether darke, a flooder in her songs and tales, moving me more deeply into what we share between us. I’ve no more data than that, but you hold aside for more, always asking for more, as if there were.
* Nowhere calls the day aside or outer. It is still now, not post-now. You’re not that smart, nor sensitive, I might add. But let’s not argue. You spoke slowly or not at all. It was cold, but I don’t remember. Not too far along the way, there was an obstruction, a pinnacle of undiscovered light or density, not not even a concept. An alteration, perhaps. But not some single thing you might spell out like astrology, or dust. I’m not going on with this anymore, you can tell that.
* It’s a spasm or a doubt, either. What’s syntax, even, but a measure of thought performing its specific gravity, like style. Flash and funk, you say, shrugging it off, but give it a try. Chicken? An attitude or love’s own shore, faulting your own penetrations of the lighted sphere without sensation or pity. Or criticism. It’s not the mind you manner, but the seance of the thing itself, looming out of the dark you forgot to describe, waiting for a guy in a coffee shop for a paint job you don’t really want to do in the first place, you just want to see what the old guy came up with for, uh, work. I’m not here, just pretending. It’s my time and I’ll do with it what I want.
* It’s shore and fault no other in the dusk, a simpler hour describes the hours between us. Light fills the room, in your own shapes made simple, made against the shore and fault itself again, leaning out into the lines you said describe will or its alien friend, love in the midst of plenty, singing against the tune for all it’s worth, shaling and spinning....
(‘93ish)

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- r e n o b jones

***************


What’s corner to the dot, a manner saying you beyond the telling out is moving before you thing to speak there is some semblance of passion to your being, how you are sent one-on-one into the fray, belittling no person before you think or speak; here’s a doubt which rings the surface turning dimension and plane into the scattering you mentioned at the heart of the matter. I’ve been here too long to say good-bye, but there is a moment when the rest falls away into nothingness or being, and how the scores are kept is still beyond measurement, in some outer sphere of belonging, you might say. I’ve held things in their own sphere beyond the hour of remission. What remains is the cool sphere of action for its own sake, or have you met anything in its own regard for who is there and who is not. And that’s the total.
* Assault lick. No fatter the hour, but skilled at her own touching in tune with the times, here’s a movie in your face, framed after the old tunes on the radio again and again. Its a mantra for forgiveness changing from doubt to oil and musk. A friendly smile on your pillow calls the day a longing after nothing, and where love is kept from the air around you, coils and fermentations recall how there is emotion to the laughter in your heart, and what calls out again and again is the sphere of action. In the calling forth from the domain wherein you lie about, thee is spake at framers, flood and chine, & I hear a motive draining forward in your own being to be calm at all which hears them singing out against the tide and flume; its a dark day in the heart when you hear no music at all, following Fall down its roomy spin, leaf to leaving. In the heart you call a name and hear an answer, no solitude in the moon remaining out again.
* I’d the door to fall away, marking you out with longer strides than you remember. It’s a newer thing to say this or that, but what makes the movie real enough is the heart’s own response to tide and flame. This is the hour’s reminiscence. In your healing out there is some responding to be made, yet a maiden in her song is sweeter than the longest drive to the moon or taking out the spin and melt of desire’s own penetrations. It is the song you remember, it is the day beyond imagining that brings you in and holds the restless heart in its own space. You’d been too far away to remember, yielding out from the darker portions of your imagining; yet that too falls away into a mute silence and leaves you gasping for light. In the after hours, she shines in the darkened room with love’s own beginnings in the heart.
* Still the hours remind and stem from nothing longer than dusk. In specific time, you fold and stride along with the intensity of a marker in the sun. Here is where the trail winds outward, forming within scores you’d wept away; internalized specifics say you are the door. In passing, thee is spake aloft and sudden, but the honor of the terms is yet undone, waiting for your call. Here is the specific mention of mountains without regret; here is the longer shade of what’s been met in the allowances of time and space, a recluse but fomented calm residing in the dusk.
* Over the sooner longs, the darker marks are set aside for nobody to remember. This’d been it, but the looter plain was killed in front of you without pity or sign. And the hour itself was a meditation in reverse, scaling the sooner musks with their own destiny into a lesion or a flux. The graves were swept clean, lighted from within, and held infirm by their own imagining. These are the doors you met opening and closed. A house was going up in the wilderness, scoping out the days ahead with their own forgiveness, the trees along the road along the river glowing with their own being, calling you toward the breaking shore where there is no plain besides. And here’s the others in their darkened automobiles, meeting in silence where there is no longer any tide to the answering of your own mentation. And here is the moon breaking apart from its own remissions, falling into the sea with a force and imagination you do not recall. Where is the door, you ask, but there is no focus to your words and they fall apart before they are spoken, looting the light of its own forgiveness.
* After you speak, it is a slighter silence for remembering, it is a passion in its own discourse to allow anything at all. Later scores revolve into imagining and hoard presence itself like a forgotten summons. Into the lighter gasps she melts behind you, forming allowances for what was never spoken but reminded like something in the mists. The later calm forgives you too, answering out from the longer reach, speaking from the heart’s own beginning that you are in tone, in palace, in the formatted spume of words arising from your own centers. And that’s no rubbing in the dark, you muse, but a speaker in the heart’s own Drive-in, answering calls from other planets in the forgotten language, a stroker in his own specific destiny. I’d hear something or other in the silence of the day but there is no air to carry it. What sounds are left aside are beyond description and your calisthenics in the jailyard have finally come to something, you guess. A darker light emanates from within yet has no shadow. Are you after gold, after all?
* I’d heard the stories of the bears dancing together up in the meadows, and he had, too, reminding me how the connection makes light of us, makes us into stories in the darkened skies. She leaves the door ajar and calls for me to enter. I do. In the darkness of your body, in the inner spaces where I can touch you, I can hear the signings of your heart welcoming me into your being. It is no dream, finally, and what the air does around us is also a welcome song. In these particular hours, there is a finality to love’s answering tone, a spinning formation of light between which the angels call their own day a longer song than you’d permit, almost like a single wisp of something, another donated ebb and flood shining through the years again, but the still heart hears its answer in the silences of time. And the door opens and closes with its own calm, marking the distances you forgot to measure from the map and chain of how you left the years apart and then brought them together again, the tides rushing....
* A larger angle signs away from where you are. A following or flowing ensues or closes in from behind, ringing away from no thing new under the sun; but spoke was tailed aside this reminder in your heart. There’s the door and here’s the sun, a signing from there and again where you are meeting within doubt. But there is no other, you think, and call the day forward from its own secrets, cloaking the air with specific detail. Houses dot the scene with their own destinies. What takes place inside them in the deeper reaches is beyond description or imagination but still true in the hours before and after. It is the spoken sign of another age reminding itself that cardboard and plastic are the icons of the period, a newer detritus than what had been there in the silence of the heart. Nothing begins again but scores the dirt around the floor with newer seeds and flowers blooming in the sand. In the hours that follow, signs themselves become a longer plane of attention for recall and doubt. It is now.
* Perhaps you went too far. It’s no distinction to be further along the road than the others in the dark. No moon means that you ;have to follow. And in the dusk of time itself, there is a slight sensation of hope which is singed beyond allowance. Cars flood the air. Roadways are specific intentions from the builder’s standpoint, but really only a suggestion that there might be a score to drive. Light. The other folks are just marking time, droning and drooling in their lisps. Cooling and crawling on lists. A fool would spy; others would not. Here’s a hardened force leading you on into shelter, into fermented sky, into shifting rims. It is now another force within and what was transformed yesterday is a callus today saying dusk, or “sheep”. I don’t know. These are the shores upon which unknown waves break and spin; these are the doorways into the other realm which deny entry at the same time they encourage. Even propositions become hazy, whether either of us is real at all; still, where love allows songs to be formed on your lips, there is no outer to the skin which wraps you in your self, your precious self of which you are so very protective--it sheds like an abandoned wound staining the earth with its evaporation, making benign all that follows.
* Oh no. This is an hour beside time which has slowly passed into eternity, or writing. Would there be enough to go around? Is this a tale told by another? We are anchored in silence. Is there really “data”? You push your ladder into these flowing robes when I call out I hear your name answering me in the flavor of your own speaking. It is the musk of signs that bears me along and as love’s beginnings flood the turf with their own calm, it is in the morning’s moving that you hear me call out and cry for what you have given into me, it is in the signing of the heart that the light begins to burn against the two of us, making something melt into itself again, and what you hear is without words, only a slighter score than light itself, making whole what was not.

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- N U R

***************


Rendered delineate
Louter, louder'd

In these delicate airs renewal, harps no wooden airs
Rescind tent, "dog me to the stone"

Allows no distance the music borne atune lates stir
But dressed like liquor buttressed

Nor upper tense their term renewal, nor hops allowed
But formed aside eighters

In flat recall nor doubters love's ankles
Touted aside nor boats these skippers lined out

Toward total lowers low\ to have held
Heaps their sudden tiers below nor altered out

Where her signing outs their own reference recalls
The longer hours you'd met them down the malls

Or have haltered from the distances their own mechanic
Hards the tuner nats no stir therein but held again

Dacy's lamb, nor halted psalter requine termit pane
Nor holded offer skim this peen her tempo scorn

Nay, faulted time torn signs between, as halted torpor
Forms the flinty skin her sighs at sheen nor tempo

Then breaks aside at folds the sharper lore
Referenced out.

This would have been
Eats nor louder

Her fat a science to doubt
But lets them say anything

I'd held my own paces shore withdrawn
The folded paces led us toward the dawn

No motor in your madness
Heals these scenes to rout

Say some more, squeak them dull

Here'd a sail no further
Slopes deny them dint of the moor!

As : slumps : the door, slow apart
Then dumps no more, slips aside
Then leaps too far to know anything

Your'd been away too long, these
Fragments less eternal moments
Denied their own rectitude
You'd say "wha?"
Allowances

Heap of dented cannots.

Leans the flummy

Your own corker, laid away no longer doubt
Afield then marker, paid no stay at donger flaut

Lorks a teal'd minnow shapes her darker
Folded lines, then hear, nor folder poon.

I'd ahead, nor peaks to further, this, at doubt.
I'd said no further, hears too soon, these out
I'd paid him stutter beers a fool seas knots

Or, full. They'd remind the undertext
His own fulfillment wanders ahead

Or shrieks at longing arks their stead
And founder marks at sink and begin.
Thus and full. These are the ways.

Eyed marked ahead

Thus but seen, his armor
Folder state particulars lean

There, but inner asides recall
Their woes late a pinner dude

These lated pines, at foxers
Alight, hang the deal linger

At end you sea them down
At forgers lays a rusk debt.

Folder's effulgent musk, nur

There'd been another snout in the marker-dye, smoothing it all over
The place was not so much new as made another sign of the times
In the inert pleasures you'd consumed in transformative stillness
Made like dust or dirt from the consummate thousands in their own

Released internal the signage pulses plusses into the fathoms unforseen
Laid-by in the latening rusk of the pioneers laid by and set to the known
Air in the mosquito of their own seeing, later in the air but unforgiven
Always into the morning of doubt, riding out of the scene into the the

Or who'd you'd been in another life not so nice to those you loved
And let them by into the dreaming airs of known forgiveness
Anchor and stain in the lawns of tomorrow's now was nowhere
Seen-forseen into southern areas of the owners themselves at

(made a sharp, flowed-folded and then lapsed out, solid burn,

This gutteral essence

What'd you'd'd smoother sharps
Her whipped acts laid open at

Attitude, nor speak, nur fold
To the plower's held, this

Little dues what'r'd piffle
Nay insense, nor other out

Or You do another floater
Beading fortunate arborlites

Not new at all, but claimed
A sponsor heals domed sky

There's no measure

Not no how but how, as that
What'd wheels no doubt
Their airs are said in retreat

But held to terms aside, a
Foal would bead this tune
To mark betimes a wheel

No seams in whirling arts
They sail them down this
Air this is new to spell the

Whips signs their appeal
Would doubt it, too, and
Send them on along the li

Peals the door a fluent
Scorn the peals a due, the
Linger heats the planet.

Nor I believe we will

His song's ended tune
Leads the arrivals down
The liner's own appeal

Deals the diner skin
You don' mean me.
But better claws than
I do send some home

Fourteen dollar in the bank
The rest for foreign bills

But I don't believe it will

That's abbreviated

The longer was, but told, hisses
Nay skinner says skank, your hoot
Believes a scene in mental latitudes
Where bespoke was the jade attender
But blunt then knocked a poke
Their yielded oar, their heisted peak.

Their own masturbation peak

Wasn't held at the end, firm, but
Dressed out in the tempo of the lines

Her own relief was also spelled
The same air trembling atune'd

Butt-marked the load of tiny blends
Their own resistances made tool

Lettuce dikes the fool's territory
Therein and proper, but a joinery

To loose to make infirm, these
Arts and sciences a piffle-doubt

What's squeeze but the loaner
Rout, another pleaser in disguise

Laid back or plenty, oars too front
A marker leans too far along now.

There's a leaping slag

You noose asway nay plinty in her scorn.
Lapped at the firmer plane no poon into sects
As they are not plain but make asides too new
Arrived this plenty yields them down the raw
Affirms, quiescent, the layer ekes a farmer dew

Too soon insect, the river drawn aside newts
The skinner into darkling tents reside insert
Then roars ahead the coaster in the night
Astir within a spirit's multitudes declining

Apart no firmer in the stars would become
The starter within his own residential clime
A poorer lout might stare beyond inclemency
Toward a newer century, then talks again

There's a tool reclining, holding onto acts
Then a porter farms into the lightening rusk
Yet welcomes his son into the warm earth
Plowing down the sentries in their worth.

temptation

daylight's calm must foggy bottoms
her own delight is tangible
own a doorway to who i am

the silence of my own making
she waits by the doorway
not a mystery but a neighbor

her call for friendship not
an anchor on the mark
but a sign upon tomorrow

say this sails across your doubt
or lays anchor on my shore
a moment in the car

you turned away
afraid to touch--or was it foiled
nothing less your own...

that's the lesson in the mist
on the road from the bay,
hanging in the air, hanging there


settled marks, the hour, spread

Her legs are wide apart in my mind's eye.
Mantra of the seeing light
Finger on the mound
Riding high.

She yields me down a smoother lawn
Sighing signs are lost in shadow
Her hips are wide and moving in and down
The light behind your sighs is singing

Light this calmer sign in mark returns
As what is shared is also doubled
Your inner tontu drives me up
This moister line

Said i walked your sighs upside down
And left you singing me in again
Would clear the timing turns
Along my open heart

Total towers say hello

Your own marks are declining down
Billy boy you know you don wrong
He fit her inside his inner sign,
She comes again and again.


This was the lighter day

You folded me into seven hours
Made the snow melt inside
And wet the flowing pool
From here to there

What was a shipment of doubt

This a leer toward the right,
A foaming masterpiece laid aside
But meaning now that's the clue
You said hello and wept again

Rancorous delay your mounts

Surfed to the city's edges at night
The master clouds the easier reach
Nor folds nor tears the later flood
Than heals your melting shore.

From hunkers aside the glade

Spoke or felts the pooler mist
Delays your having this to peak
Then get high and say your name
Would score the boom-a-laka

All them wanna know

Then on the talking zydeco
Right on the fold on down
They call a pig
Or wouldn't pay a fool

That's what we're gonna do

Laid the page breaks a tuner
Follows me down the lakes
And met you in the back
I saw your breasts were weaving

Enough on the rope of tonight

I met you in the shadows of the light
A momento of the dawn
You wore a rising look of subjects
Reaching from the back of a fawn

Nor whisper said no matter in the mists

Here'd a newer signatory responsive, alerted outward
In the manner of the pines and formats unknown.
It'd speak't at firm her anchor plain and simple.
The doorways atune and spoke no anchor on the pain
But held your splinty ache, the northern pasture
Fortunate but faith or plenty in the heart's own
Knockers up, her buttress down aflame at heart
The floating palace markered upward into lines.

Yor, the schoon!

Thee, no harper shed. Lays a groove
The center sent, her at lude the tube
At hope, love's mark misses, send her
Down the line and roped ahead, loot.

This'ld split or pinner, dude, a hat.
Yours at the knockers up and piney
Held the door and split her down again

What you reminded was not so awful.
But sent against the wind, a lute's signifi-
Cants the lope'd outer, wind of the lusts

Song arised, his holed-out outer. This.

You can have the dog

It's reek a squirt. Then heavy toward the door.
But crosses next rivulet the foamer's heard.
Frankly, I'm alarmed. Wired into the sink.

Yours positive, Genuflectus Anonymous,
The latent savior's density unforgiven,
A hacker musty-eyed larker, signing.

This & that. A former gerund in disgust
Holds at bay reports of mugged loaf-tarts
Then pencils out cranberry and menstruats.

Figaro Monstruo

He'd said aside, here is the flux. I nodded out
Then poled my own fortunes for their doubt.
This is the linker food, a tomb for air's turning
Caught unwary pears their own tannin screwed
At pike or central, the land lands then turns aside.

How far you went into this. Then halted and reflect.
Nor plinty in her musk all healing and intense.
But flavored tongues their own penetration hits
And holds here in the aftergold pimento, in the air.

There's a sin, uh, in sink, er, ate her. Gotcha bold
Then harkd 'em Spamy links all golden glowb'd
A fool's err, and hunts them down against
The tune, the rope, the airy spumes of gold &
Light, at light's air's rescint and plenty, all aglow

You'd poled the refuse down, then held at bat
The rats and fathoms in disuse, dusky buttes
Their own fame recalled and then discards
Of rheum, of plenty, of oil in the hold, at Now.

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- DESPEDITA

***************

DESPEDITA

Who are you, anyway, close enough to burn my eyes out, again, another day turns the heart’s whore out hustling burning it out the wild glow impersonal struggle the warrior-heart beating back too many words, “a foster home for wooden Indians,” shit like that turns to safety in the pen, scared that I’ll show too much if anything at all, photos of masks, a mask, photos of shadows, the you of you, self talk retreating deeper down within the retreating deeper down within the battle peering out, “you old whore,” Wally said, the him of him seeing in me the him of me; your tears again remind us the unspoken hours recede and fall, a letter written and not mailed, this writer’s other, blank ink stains your white pants or someone solitary to love, the model of the hour resists inside the power junkie’s parasitic suck the life she makes you house and garden every way away and holding on with both hands the swirling declination whirlpools into darkness & fire, acid glove. Say anything, say something back and forth or is no one soon enough to lie about it, not wanting to give away holds you back from that, too, it’s hard to let it out and not go away after it, you are in the field, fighting for all your worth to be specific, to make passion personal, but it won’t, and who is love, here, the name of you or me, or is it buried in the silence of my own history, worshipped away in abstract longing, turned into, into something contained made fuel for the pen. No, it is in the pit & chasm, I stand and look down into it, I back away and hold on, the question unanswers itself, is that your persevering spirit or the simple repetition of danger to which there is no alternative, I want you to know all this, too, as if what, passing through danger, looking for the real you at the end of it makes me who I am in the here and now, is so wrapped up in being itself that I make it a recognizable part of the game that I know is the beginning itself of what I am to do, it’s the book, I say, beginning itself in the familiar love-conflict between you; and her, the archetypes of conscience which are the subjective and the objective registers of the form. But the you of you feels me draw away ‘into someone else,’ you say, into the her of her. Or are there others, too, too many to mention, and, hurt, you fall to blaming him, for that, but it is the book, he says, not sure himself if it is the truth or the safe escape from the heart’s whore unbending cunt that makes you false, that keeps you from the me of you, so I feel guilt, or that I am lying, or that there is someone else when it is only the book and not you at all, and that’s where it hurts me, too, makes me want to stop, to throw it in, and I can’t, and I wrestle against it, puffing, afraid, compelled, but in there, powerfully, wrestling around and around. All so familiar I want to barf. I remember the empty room, again, the gray sky out there takes me away. Just be honest, you say to yourself, I want and I have. Stop the conversation, listen to the music; I did that already. You should stay at home, not talk to anybody, not go out, you’re so crazy. I’ve heard that, I should be the one on the leash, growling at the dwids. Control, a little control & focus to drive the hustler back and stop shaking, no more headaches, you can’t do it alone, you know, it’s just not worth it when you’re alone and heroic, or is the fame-game the same as the self-game, I suppose even that has its own mystique, like crying, if you do enough of it you feel better even though nothing has changed, and it does, it feels better; I guess you just go in and out of it, but all the time? Forever? What you value is thinking that you got somewhere, closer to the me of you, what we want to be the same. Yeah, be careful with it. Following along hesitant step after step in what appears to be the right direction, after some false starts and a certain amount of tripping & falling face down in the mud, and though it seems heartless to turn love into writing, feeling into power, I mean, that’s why I’m always afraid about lying, if that’s it, so I hold on, and say, just wait, it’ll be all right, it’ll be worth it, and I’m not really all that sure about it, or think that I’m lying again, turning it into words, do I need it that much, this? Promissory notes. Rehearsals. Penetration & musk. Strangers, clouds, suffocation beneath rose petals, heart’s whore whining; looking through the layers to find that what’s there is enough not to ask for more, and why do you, struggler, why not give it up and say your name, now, moot question of all time, let me off the hook & chain, against the wall and flower, time’s arriving again today in two hours, the mailman in his red white and blue truck, down one side and up the other.