Thomas Lowe Taylor -- AT THE DULLARD MINE

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


sans duco est

Toward north after freeing sensation. What’s. At door the mooner palm, history itself in removal or festered toward doubt and, uh, this fashionabler. He’d plotted plods and further, but made intense by something moving at the speed of spuds. There’d sail some sense of seeming, but what had made sense before was not in play today. This is it, a spunk or deeming set, at last there would sail knockers under hand, a slupper skins into her with a dealing froze, finger to skin and a moaning around the clock, that’s renewal. Or would ya say more into the sun’s own relict between her eyes a spot and central, thrusting palm the tower spun at foment & calm.

I’d held on into morning once before, and said lasting is the former pleased where the latter eased, uh, and into this fire there rested something new, perhaps, but a lesson on the plain was passed into forgiveness or women at the gate and plover, she’d spent a total on these dues, flying north to find out whether there was any one there or not; a risk was sent in calculation, but the hover meant a car was parked at the edge of the desert, with a body inside and no more evidence than that. Was there a crime or was it simply a disclosure from the chance universe that it existed after all, and that logic was merely a construct, a detail from the mirror which called reflection the realer crime of the heart in positude, gleamers at the musk, folders at the calm. Nobody home.

These are more holiday dues; after as sent would indicate that she had decided to respond, and that what was only guessed at the day before would turn into certitude on the morrow. No clues, but a smiling sign from the synchronicity of signs. You were not mad, only bent around the dikes and fasteners, where they carried the day ahead of itself but not really mattering at all. No doors opened today, and the synchro-mesh of events was in doubt, not pleasure at all. Somewhere in another city, she might or might not be getting your letter today, your proposal for a relationship. After all, a two-year’s silence was not exactly encouraging, but if you had a larger sense of events, you might be able to surmise from the residues of chance that there was something, uh, afoot. That is a simpler way, after all, and what is left in the head is still evidence (that the head is there). Pleasure is a far distant elocution, and daily repair, remission, restall’d forces declare a pincer, nor dolt his staffers forming within diagrams, it’s too pool to sail and form askancers pollute detailed retreated segmenter his doler plum at plin’t’d spun. Foamer. Salute. The door’s pealer spin rectitude no spinner demeans yr labor at (so much) an hour, has the deal emblazoned on his throat, no choker, but blood’s anchor and palm, the singer is the song, no detail but in being (there) across the floater’s spud and single, the openers have labored long enough to be a simpler rotomontade, sunk around the world in a spasm of yellowed duskers, how they dance and spin again against the duller folds, her hand on your wanker indicates an essent, transitory dude yr pressure no fucker in his dolts, but a miner at the spin, sealing dusk within a present door or position of opportunity, is there a reason? Respond the danker folds her own reel back and in, a reader, even, and holding.
There is the answer. Edited and let go into the universe of discourse, a pattern is reminiscent of its origins, and has that sort of molecular construction which would suggest a beginning or a fortunate oblivion to the dealers who hear that there is a folder to forget in the substances of doubt. Old before his time, that’s how he looks to me. Or was he ever young at all? There is a dominion of presence which defines the locus of being, or one’s sense of being there at all, a fortune or a pleasance, but there nonetheless, as if in the plenitude of sessions and forms, there is a retreat from participation, an arrogance, a maimed demeanor of more or less simplified inclusion. That’s how it looks from here, that he came into the world at a psychic age of about thirty-two and went on from there, no wah wah of the heart, only a serious, unincluded beating of the lymph system [if it beats at all] and its associated friends to forge ahead and not ever look back, which keeps you always in the present, you might think, but no longer built into a past or a season (how can you have seasons in the present?) which is a name for recall or its own pressure to be seen, screened, and then let into the valley (Pity Ross Form O’Vallee) which comes from the ancient residues of your own intention to be cleared from the forward-pressing motion of one’s body’s reclinations and doubts of itself would be cleaned off the mat, evaded from the spoon or flustered into decision by a less hostile environment. That’s the deal. No recall but in specifics, and as she waits for the letter she does not expect, what is her attitude toward you in the first place, ah, that was the one that got away, where there was nowhere to get to at all, stuck in the present as he was, but left in imaginations and recalls too deep to indicate on a single sentence, but the page itself a reminder of intentions.

Here’s the design of the thing itself. In the Dullard Mine there are no outers, only a sense of, uh, despair which is cause itself for mirth in the face of inevitable discord. Volunteers and pioneers clear the way for the strikers and their mounted wagons of microphone and placard and the last gasp of an aging workforce to remain in the specific gravity of their own marches, and the hand upon the wanker a less dominant trend than you’d describe in some destiny of acts, where you call out “This is the holy crowd!” What they call you in return is a fool or a simpler pun than would at all be recommended into forgiveness. There is no forgiveness in this plenitude of scholars, and as they mumble, so too do they weep. Roughed out. The syndrome of fording. What’s folded up in the background is another pallor, a resistance to fortunes and jacking. But there is also a mood or an indication of intelligence which fools you away from the real stuff. The other hand, as in “On the other hand”, is itself folded away like a two dimensional piece of paper, if that’s not too much of a clue. “Second Hand” means the other, not recycled clothing, it’s really about the other which is included in the heart, the hand, the wanker and its double, the shank of the spoon. If you mean one thing, you usually get another, but hope is not the clue in this restitution of homage. To the duskers borne, goes the chant, a flag of hope in the allocations of doubt, and if you look closely enough, a subject emits chance from its fissures. Heels.

I’d been out; he was standing next to me, whistling “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” A small surprise, but then, what comes around once usually comes around again, and again.

Lower on the scale of one to ten, or perhaps the long-distance call for an address is what made the morning into what it was. Being submissive, or having submitted, why is it put like that when you send out a manuscript, you’re not submissive at all, you’re being more aggressive than not.... At the end of time there are no others.
The new paragraph beckons with its own sense of possibility, of having started over in the midst of chance or change to reconcile the duties of the composed with the alternatives of the reader, or a change alternating the duties of chance to readers of the composed, or something like that, it’s the sense of beginning and beginning over and over that makes it like a formula supernatural movie, with the same stock set of responses called into play, and if there are no boundaries and there is no structure at all, then one is left with the necessity of imposing order on an otherwise random set of signs. How’s yr left? I mean, pithier nor plater, his “at bat” is begun and not flaunted at the age of the epoch (epic?). When there’s no other there is no one.

So, a liner undetermined by any other name would be a liner just the same, driven into the outfield, fielder running back and back and finally bouncing against a neoprene or visquine wall, not a wall, really, but a vertical trampoline. And as you see remains & remainder are two different things all together. Nowhere the same but in its juxtas, how they wrinkle and fall away, how she pulls apart the labia and shows the mystery to you, one stroke at a time, in the fullness of your own imagining, it is now and forever the sea bursting at your dams. Another rhyme includes a sense of possibilities into its puns and homonyms, alert. Or would you notice at all, in the intensity of the sky and the scenery of the moment, you are left alone again in the witnessing of your own mystery laid (sic.) bare (sic.), eventuation to its mental shore, metaphoric and declensed, verb to sign, the paragraph unwinds like an old song with its reminiscences of time and space, how we have traveled!

There are conclusions to be met. At the moment of composition an entire postulate is formalized, and although detours are intended in the course of revelation, or of the unwinding of the unbelievable knot, she is still there, on all fours, demanding attention, the throaty rasp of pleasure’s signs reeling in your ear, it is all one-in-the-same, or another platform for the train to arrive at, a plateau of sensation in which the other is becalmed by its own one-ness; throughout the play of the thing, dildo-head, you are omitted from the song by your very participation in it, the player is not the play, although the singer is the song. Now rub that out, if you can, and eliminate the locus of sensation from eye to finger to hand to mind, as other forces demand their own intimate behavior, nor allow any witnesses to survive. “Nobody gets out of this alive” is one of the cliche songs about life itself, how undemanding can you get? Although if a thing is both a symptom for what it really is at the same time (in the same time as it is) that it is what it is, we have a layering of existence within the same emotion, although the erotic is a witnessing of the repetition of a thing that was imagined. Setting this against metaphor, how can a thing be what it is at the same time being non-referential? One must work that out in the nature of choice and how one wants to pay attention within the instant, either to be carried forward into strangeness and solitude, or to remain in the redemptive sociality of the safety of the very naming of things, of things, not of energies or emotions, but of a rather rote distinction of objectives and fatalities, no thing but in seeing. One goes forward, even though it may be against one’s will, if will there is in the press of circumstance, as what things seem and what things are become more and more simultaneous, more attuned to a similar existence, or an identical existence within the same time-frame although possessing separate forms, or formalities, demeanors you might say for sameness in the midst of difference.

Nowhere beneath the tensor delimit, into further asks where you might begin, not into the lighted sphere, but a rather dense hour has holes sucked up within speech the reminiscent act wherein yr “futures favored forward” clings or wraps intention with its own saranwrap alcove dension, her apples flavored, her vulva tainted purple with the smell of patchouli & musk making you dream of sex even while you are having it. And further through the door of your own life, sentences gleam with their forgetfulness of how you got there in the first place, isn’t that the function of syntax, an ordered loss of memory, of beginnings, so that the act of speech or of writing, of composition anyway, is of a character that the conclusion to which one is led has nothing to do with the assumptions with which one began, a separation of beginnings and endings which is evidence of the sacred itself? And just as she comes again, I am lost in the vision of our moment to the episode itself, how we began, and what we did to prolong our moments of pleasure, these instructions gradually become blind to cause itself, leaving the solitary masturbator with his recall of what might have happened on such and such a day....

Tartar at sign. Yr moon at sixes and others. And where the day drops off into forgetfulness, there I would be with you by the fire in the coma of our being together, no longing but in being, and as “pleasure shared is pleasure doubled”, I’d not be alone again, but along-among in our gradual emptying of the selfish into its own dimension, how the waves are parted and whomsoever enters, tongue and line, along the divided highway, pillars intense regret no mounting anterior formalities, the secret story has been revealed and there are no secrets any longer than there were before you came into me with your own agenda, concealing yourself in the cloak of sensation and guilt; no, there are no longer any sensations to be made private among us as we are what encounter the self has before in its own dimension. Circular and profunct, her apples are opened wide again, and you arise beyond doubt and self into a realm of purity and emptiness which is the sign itself that you have come beyond completion into the area of symbol and synchronicity, of meaning and term, and of laughter and penetration, how the spirit itself becomes the sign for what it is, could be, becomes--answers to questions which have not yet been asked--she sings to you at night in the darkness, sings the throaty song of life beginning to be seen, sings without any song at all which is the song itself, becoming the beloved in the sleep of dreams.

Now you are complete. A day has lasted into its “next”. And if time moves, it is through you, you who do not move at all, you who sing into the heart of whomsoever seeketh finds the nature of the song in its quest a reminder that there is a song at all; and as the season becomes an emptiness, you find that there is no quest at all, there is having been there that becomes the sign for something else, and she whom you awaited has arrived again, leaving and coming at the same time, and as there is no thing made that is forever, so too is there no light that can be extinguished between you and she whom you seek, it is all one becoming that has encountered the soul in its wanderings. What follows follows nothing, what follows is origin and sign, what you are become in your selfless self of being in the center of becoming, it is the day grown more and more forgetful, as the unwinding sign encounters you at your own beginning to be the one you are.

2680 words
April 26, 1995
(C) Thomas Lowe Taylor

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- JFK: The Adirondack Diary

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


June 19, 1992

Masturbated all day again; nothing seems to come of it.
I can't move anything but my right arm. It's dark here.
What a headache! Sometimes I feel like my brain's in
a drawer behind me, connected to my body with silver wires.
What a gloom. O, where are they now, the Norma Jeans, the
Betties, the cute little cupcakes that used to thrill me--
I'm chilled to the bone and it's dark here and I don't
like anything any more. My appetite's gone and I'm getting
depressed. Oh well. Relax and enjoy it they said, but
this darkness is overwhelming me. I can't really see the
light at the end of the, wha, runnel? Funnel? Can't
even think about it, it's too depressing. Turn on the light!

2
So dark. I opened my eyes and something fell off,
sounded like a couple of quarters hitting the side of
side of this, this--I don't know where I am at all,
but I can hear something like, uh, somebody trying
to light a Bic, scritch-scritch. No points of light
anywhere in this gloom. We're driving along this
country road and it's a beautiful day, so many cars
in front of me and behind, with their little flags.
Look, there's a town, Dufur, and it says on the,
a billboard, population unknown, and the phrase,
"Ask not what you can do for Dufur, ask what
Dufur can do for you." I like that; it should be
in a speech or something. I'll have to use it.

3
I can't resist any more, I would call you to come
around and let me in on the great secret. But nobody
calls my name anymore, I think they've forgotten
everything. Later on I'll get the rest in order,
so there's no doubts about anything at all in the
name you have for love. Perhaps it's too long ago
to remember what went on anyway. But here it is,
the here-and-now. Too dark to see and too late to ask.
I'd go on, but what's the point, the statues all
broken, the lights gone out, I don't know any more...
You'll have to ask John about it, he'll remember, he
knows more than he's telling you anyway, you know that....

4
Fragments, falling, radio falling, on the way to where
you kept off from what, from what's going on, into the
eternal light, my heart burning like there's an eternal
fire on it, must remember my antacids, it hurts so bad,
but nobody calls any more, and the flowers have wilted,
the bloody clothes, the body close, where have all my
powers gone? Flowers. I can't remember my name, even.
But the film, I've seen that film a thousand times, and
I don't remember a thing about it, it was a nice day, even,
and I walked into the TV studio and said some smartass
thing, and they turned and said, "The President's been shot."
And when they turned, I could see it was serious.

5
Even the black crows have subsided. Flown away. No more
to sing my name within the stretch of highway I call my own.
No more distances relieved by your hand on my shoulder, no
more love between the anchors in the distance, melting from
one side to the other. It is cold and dark here where I am,
my heart has grown weary and I no longer remember my name.
It is too late to cry and I am too numb to even make the first
move if I were to love you again, how would I start? What
is the first page of the story and how did I get here? It is
night, and the darkness remains after I close my eyes. Where
am I, now that it is finished and done with, and where are my
children, and what are they doing today, I am so tired....

6
No more distance to the pleasures. No mere pressure
to your name in my eyes, forlorn presences determinate
however insulated, however informal lassitude abandoned
by the lesser terms for forgiveness, as I have no longer
any ties to do so, but am resting supinely in the darkness
of my own history, unrecommended unto others in the loneliness
of their own hearts, left by the choices they have made
and relegated to the portions thereof, whereby what is
made is also left alone to be what it is in the silence
of the heart's woe, and made of love by the song one sings
in the midst of others, in the longing of the heart.
The heart's longing has your own name written on it.

7
To become who we are in the isolation of what we have come
to inhabit, and be made into light by the thronging of the bell.
There is the moment of our own discord, and here is the term
we have made for forgiveness, that history will undo its measure
and lean forever in the term of light which we are become, here
in the moment of our own lives, there in the turmoil of what
we have become, and in the senses bereft nor abandoned, here
in the light of history's own terms, we are alone in the longing
after light of which we are sum and distance, we are alone
in the turmoil of the moment and abandoned to ourselves by
the terms of which we are made, unto no one made simple but
located in the hours of the day, into these meetings becalmed.

8
Within the light and dark of which we are part and sum,
we are made one in the seeming of who we are to others,
and in their love made sum and part. This is the hour of
which we spoke, and we are the sentinels of the hour made
into the light of which we are the final emanations. You
are the name of my own light, as love is the hour and light
is the sum. Whomsoever has abandoned me, let him deny that
history is the calling from which we have not looked aside,
but laid to rest the fire and the flame of history in its
own becoming what it is, as here we have passed the destiny
of the moment and become what we have feared, allowances for
the night are denied in these thousand points of darkness.

9
Of whom are we name and density, spared by the summary of the
moment from the names you've left along the way? Denying it is
no good; there are no more denials as the crows have flown into
the eye of the beholder, as the destiny of the hour has become
more a prophecy than a denial, as history has become a movie and
not a story, there you are abandoned in your own preference to
the real, as you are loaned to the other of whom we speak, and
made total in the summary of your doubts. Who has left me here
in this darkness, who has moved me from the mountain to the grave
if not myself, and by what choice have I lost my soul if not
by my own hand. Is it a suicide of the soul that has left me
here in the wilderness of my own ambitions, my need to be real?

10
This is the crossing, this is the moment when I leave my body
and transcend into the lighted space of which we have spoken, this
is the moment of which we have not been witness, and it is in the
lessons of the past that the hours have moved aside, have entered
the conscience of the heart, have become the name of the hours we
have left behind. You are the name of my heart and I welcome you
into the spaces left behind. This is the day we move ahead, and
this is the time we leave the house of our other parents. There
is no light in the new world, there is only the feeling of the heart
and the timing of the light, this is the moment that we follow
in within the mood of the day and the terms of its innocence.
This is the home of the heart's woe and temper, this is the moon.

11
Outside, a dove has fallen on the ground. It lifts its head
slowly and rests it again against the wall. Its feathers
are taut against its body, but it is crumpled. Perhaps it
is sweating, I cannot tell. The man who picks bottles out
of the trashcans is back again. He is well dressed and carries
a plastic bag which makes him look like a business man who
is carrying his groceries home. He walks with the distracted
air of a man collecting bottles for a living. I can see the
soles of his shoes and he has holes in them, but otherwise he
looks like any other man out collecting bottles from the trash
cans. It is cold in my heart and there is no air there. Why
have I fallen and forgotten my name? There is no one here.

12
You are with me in my indifference, and I can hear the cries
of the others in their own immensity and loneliness.
There is nothing to do about the destiny we have chosen,
and we have come into this airless state within the
confines of our own time and space. Yours is the name I
have been given to call for this pastoral reminiscence;
and when the wind blows, I hear my name blown between the leaves
and the cries of the others in their own loneliness. What
is the hour and whose is the term of silence to which
we are drawn by the allocations of other hearts? There
is no distance and there is no other immensity but the one
which surrounds me, and I am the only thing in this silence.

13
This is the distance, this darkness without pity or name.
This is the hour of which we spoke and yours is the name I
have been given and yet still there is no answering to the
rushing of the tides and the beating of the heart which has
no name. The air is still and quiet and there are no more
songs. Why have I come to this place and whose is the term
of silence with which I have been honored? There is no
answering machine hooked up to my brain, and still it rests
in the silence of the drawer behind me, pulsating with the
artificial silver of the plated wires which are plunged into
the spaces behind me, and there are visitors about whom
I know nothing, and yet there is nothing here within me.

13
Now is the time of our own choosing. This is the place and
now is the time, that much I have learned in this darkness
from which there is no rescue. The light beats about me, but
I can't form it into shape or distance. There are words taped
the furniture around me, but I can't read them. It is quiet
here and yet there is a semblance of motion to the eloquence
of their gestures and the quietude of their resignation. Perhaps
they, too, have forgotten who I am, just as I have. And perhaps
it no longer matters, as this is the hour of which we have
already spoken. There are no others in the silence of my
airless heart, and there is no beating, pulsating pressure from
within. It is dark and it is quiet and it is where I am.

14
Yours is the name love gives me, and yet love is the distance
from here to there. I cannot move. I am silent in this
enclosed space. I am nameless within the silence of my own
destiny, I am alone in the hours of my hands and feet, I am
removed from the passions of the time and yet there are no
tears and there is no distance between us. Here is the moon
and there is the dove fallen upon the ground, its head rising
and falling with the last vestiges of its life. No one sees
the dove upon the ground. The dove will soon be forgotten and
the hours will no longer pass between us. Soon, even the wires
will disintegrate between what is left of me and the drawer
behind me. Soon there will be no silence in my airless heart.

15
And there will be no darkness. There will be nothing at all.
Love is the anchor along the sides of the wall. Love is the
term we have for forgiveness. You are the name love gives to
forgiveness, and yours is the name I have been given. Now
is the time to call out, and I am calling out to you to come
across time and space and live in the darkness of which I
am part and sum. This is the hour and yours is the name love
gives to light. This is the moon and I am the silence. Here
is the term and there is the line across the sand across which
no one passes. The lights have gone out and now is the time.
Rocks are forming outside. They are growing into flowers of
lava and time. Outside, the light is shining into my eyes.

[c] 1992
Thomas Lowe Taylor
Susan Smith Nash
first published by Texture Press, Norman OK 1992

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- Daily Logs

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


Daily Log May 20.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Larger smoothes the righter corner of what
you see by turns repetitive and unique.
Original size attains its recall, the forward
push of sign & time no longer heals the light.

Long enough today, too, to say you are forgotten
from the earlier stuff, what was it, an
invasion from within, denying the present its
fresh vigor and original, unspoken purpose.

Broken arrows do not decide the fate of nations,
who would even comment on that is not
no foreign sunsets the mirror’d heart in
its own heat beats the moon around the sky.

Arc & shine, familiar projects. Yarded-out. And
the slimmer doors, a tunnel reign, or stammer
or co-rental in the season’s own benign to tell,
her’s as the moving sign; awaitment has no passage.

Floors to pour. I’d wrestle signs, their own density
a promise or a spasm, either calls away your
own denial to storm or toss yr lunch. At flat.
Moulted shin, hero at doubt, re-lighter from within.

Or boundaried-out, what held former lines exists
no more. Partitions have a way of waning.

II

Your dick: at said, he dreams her on the wall next
to him, nude by candlelight, energy streaming from
within at a finger’s touch, and music singing
in the background of the evening’s heated ways.

I called disaster, but it didn’t answer. My luck.


Daily Log May 28.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Lesser fronted dailies pique less attentive
gasps of renoun his apple’s grand & simple
are now your own eyes remind me that I am.
The hearts warps no less plenty than not.

What had you done? Any more decides yr name,
not as doubt, but presence. New vocabulary
hints new messages are in store again,
but dust you often enough for that!

Had. No foot the same stream twice, has the
deal not unremarked, but shown, alive & well
where the new moon says this is it.
And not easy either. Lesser marks decide.

You’ve melt, or me. Again. He did without.
But the poem is the body, and its progress
indicates perfume, or, perhaps, a message.
The car parked outside means you’re here.

The Barracks turned out to be a restaurant,
and the beginning was no longer amazing--
Even buildings on their sides makes sense.
I’d hate to be the one picking up after this.

Slow times has the day ruled-out. Never a new
beginning beyond that. Whatever it is, goes
beyond what is said in favor of suggestion/example.

II

Your dick. The same day carried forward what’s
against your will, even, and the example
suffices for today where no answer persists.

The day formed out of bounds, and I looked. My luck.



Daily Log June 11, 1995
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Delay, she said, your arcing triumph, no meat ‘er
in yr mists, tracked below handles of door was
inclement disc her own private Montana of friction
refunds the dream’s significance in parts bestrode out.

But the bee stings. I know that. They’d wheeled into
my own swinging Kung Fu of escapes no doubt the
apple itself an issue over what might become you
in sense or outer, heel’d-out and thrum’d a thalweg.

Love had you over me, and what leaned at first
forward knockers would stray intent calmer pines
are not reclined butter knocks out hammering lines
the pastor delimit from hoser dogs the outer air.

And hits them upper dares decide my own populaces
whirring remind re-wind or blowing skin away
from the business at hand, a hand in handed
hours I watched out how you came inside me.

These lobes of rhoda; not imprecise, you know, butt held
from indistinction in players also shelled out to
other hours sung perhaps away from all of this
infernal soup of knots. They polled me for this relay.

And dare your name my lips ahead & stammer outer parts
are inner scenes of light beheld inflamed passions
let under hand their own fumes and alt positions.

II

Your dick. The shielded spiner spoke out again;
at last a truer design was in the work no starts
too soon but was it just a dream away you
said the day would come again and stay & stay.

The collar answer’d, but there was none. My luck.



Daily Log Jun 26, 1995
Thomas Lowe Taylor

for JF

I

Yr big-scripted love note stopped me in my tracks;
did I know before hand, you are dear to me
to see what signs I’ve made unconsciously reaching
into what was already there to welcome me home.

Here at the beach, I welcome you into my heart
again, maybe, tht what was there before I spoke
was not uncertain, or within hearing range of
the others my heart keeps me from seeming plain.

“You spud” I said again, hoping to peer within yr
heart tomorrow, or later, even, than that which pours
forth from the unreachable depths of my long time alone,
courting archetypes & motives for what comes again.

The move is maid and center. She clears the air direct
speech is a day’s mood too far away to touch,
for me, at least, you’ll have to be my hand upon
yrself to watch the hours go by so slowly that you cry

for it to stay the same air reckoning its presence here
is where we’d start a symmetry, or twinship of
purpose and act and sign again the coming tides
of pleasure at becoming another life at last bloomed.

I’ve been here too long along the whole time is too
long to be believed for what you’ve unlocked
at the climbing chain, at the beginning start.

II

My dick. The doorway’s opening talent salvoes far
ahead of this air thickening time’s latent purpose
for us to say that this is it, and mark this spot
as where we started out on the remaining journey.

The park stuttered from silence into light. My luck.


Daily Log Jul 23.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

What’s at hold, no firmer stars remit nor pleasure
holds her aloft within acts, how you are these
soft alignments what’rd said “no more,” and let
the arms rescind doubt, and leave the days aside,

What’s said no matter in your moving underneath or up the
white pole rising says how’s your other outer otter plays
the day’s astonishment with itself has you grasping, er,
gasping within sentences cast to light again & again.

Then’s at foam, yr heart spins suddenly calling forward
claims on inattention where you’d sailed along the shore,
winds grasping at yr eye & center, how your seas wept
clean air remembering what was spoke between us & what was not.

For if the heart hears itself in clinging wasps made certain
holds you in the hours bent at scar, at moon, at line
& substances before the claims were met & said,
“you are,” and then go on along the red waves waving.

At court and spark, they’d peddled out the hours’ days,
then take this space away, the language is falling,
clearer here than not, butt-held and firmer touch
your own signs release the air into seeming plain.

Here you are the hour’s new relinquishing and here you
are calling the air’s permission for the outer act to
come upon you suddenly, or hair your pressures out.

II

My dick. Evened out. These messages, calls from here
and there, do less to complicate than they do to
become what is there between us separate entities in
this and that repeating cycles, remiss and calm

Nor plenitude diminish, pleasure’s outer sign. My luck.



Daily Log Jul 29.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Neither abandon nor light all there is,
you are someone made intense by time’s lines
from the heart, outer makes its way inside.
Yr art & sentenced marked illumined from within.

Nor foment staum, relax her outer tempos in
this is the timing span, I called you dream enough
to become present within circumstances favored by
what’s come, come to pass, passing into the air to be.

Re-lidded repose no master enjoins beyond doubt
what’s flooded sense a sign within at outer coils
have dotted the landscape, and you were there.
A flutter abides her presence, wings spread for flight.

This land so long unspoken of love’s attributes along
said passion’s positions more than tongue’s convenience
into song along your long line into that as rides
between gasps becomes this, made flesh as word.

It’s the empty hours that weigh so long, despite these
tremors to the contrary realm, as I am contrary , too,
and sped between alliances as if there were no in
between to spare these sensations of their thrift & song.

She came to life & spoke shuttered portions opened
out to my own arena of concord & spin to
lesser gods have opened up to give against you.

II

My dick. What’d been a calling turned out to be
an answer on the telephone from about twenty miles
down the downer dream what’s gone from this
picture spares you the softer aliens denied love.

Tenor leaven. She turned around & laughed. My luck.



DAILY LOG Au 13.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Nor plotted sane, would hoard, then, other to rheum
Reborn again, you'd shorted measures cleaned outer was
and this was now you showered-out, or waited again.
I was the one who went across too fast, and said so.

Another area refind slighter things again, nor weaving
Spoke are cloistered, almost, within opportunity, a mask
Nor plenitude diminish host garble its' floorers calm
denote remix, then its the hot score is all alone again.

Perhaps I'd thought more. Never know anyway, "trail not
He says "repeat" again, butt held her inne thigh
read from serpents delayed songs unwidening
from where you are tonight encounter valid an

Shame believes you abandoned lonelier emptiness
though restored at moment's spin and charge,
you were how, or at another blessed retrieval
Signifies nothing less that's the poker buddy's face.

But, where'd walked again reminding repetition's
Cursed, wanton exercise, quotations from flux are
recidivist nouns where they all act equivalent blue
are harkened peals away across the open hours fried.

This was a lawn, a learned tongue, really, less overt
Late tunes execute, relinquished calm less deadly
and in your inner heart, a newer sign pontoons out.

II

Your dick. or not, butt held her own fancy says aloft
or anything else you want. It's the nomenclature
answering sighs less remmote from the healed center, out
into the answering tides you'd skidded, or partnered

The known recalled in simpler hours at noon. My luck.



DAILY LOG Sep 2.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

In reclamate sense, he'd outer'd dusk its more
divine aspects readied for a fall, but seasoned
would not hear her laughing, and when I let go
no fear of falling ensued fliers at their arcs

No benediction clears less former stares their own
destiny bewilders hearing sense sensations's mark
at the heart's outer terms release light from
inherent testimony on the waving plane of sets

Define her hammer in yo face as passionate distinction
wins the day's waves away no further hearing out
in simpler choices heeds you into seasons disregard
what's posted out beyond the breaking surf intention.

He'd spilled what out the spender from beneath, or
the slip of thigh no word but claimed a stroke or two
where it counts you out from leases or prior obligation
meaning where the dart leads, no further extent opens.

Here is the marker due at love's release to motors told
you are the beating sign inside yourself to watch a
hooter fall aside to grin and nip her dappled rim
her flavor mounted lakes aside you plumbs a steal.

Thrust at another fate, re-sign them fielders at their
game and spasm; direct and yet simple crowds the
air around me, calling passion the forward moon's detail.

II

My dick. Hard as tall, talks her arc bent back over
the seeming pin pusht up her back and center,
dreamed into forgiveness what calls me outer in
these specific songs we make inside the silences.

Here the opera pinned by lates less than knockers. My luck.



DAILY LOG Sep 10.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Forestalled arrival not in terms of insurrection, removes
to what surprised (seized) away is made, then set, toward
hummers in redoubt halts to stay advanced ahead, bestow
them as at, your'd heal'd me with your touch, yrself.

Thrown heel'd her outer limner folded back legs upon itself
wants in throat was holden arts permit me within acts
nor thrown inside acts are themselves, buddha meets
buddha in small deaths; no experience can be communicated.

Then work there in remiss pressures un-schemed retents,
heard my own breath stiffening arcs, the millionth time
was too far ahead; I dot just not remember hear
what lies I'd foster overhead permissions, bestowal

Twenty positions built in, hard pressed to hold her down
again scissoring lighter heeds within sensate dipthong's art
and signs unencoded flesh singed-heat resonance restore
horse and rider to the silent pines exodus behind lines

I'd heard you sighing in the other, rhymed inside me, pun
at arcs' triumph & spin, cigarette, which'd left me dine
the poker shoon you'd held and lee too stalwart
hymns then steeper arcs unrepentant skies then

Helded form acts spinter heaps, my own dusk this
even stain insistent harps are more than precious
butt held and firm, I'd arked yr lips into mine

II

Your dick. The design fervor opportunes you outward skies
her famous melt reclines doubt its own pressures more removed
than hammer at his simpler hearts made mental passion
in reversed alcoves of light, no harm done, just at day.

I'd heard them sing before inherent time within sharps. My luck.



DAILY LOG Sp 17.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Positions undemanding silence attributes accented lines
their own permit to entity your labored hours recall;
I'm nor more as not, nor not that either in your mists
than heaving years' hot occluded sense that neither sets.

He'd studed nar yon yip at present means obtuse & plane
within substances plume & stin; they're nor short recluse
to seeming set sentenced yawn they're hearted splint
recall toward after hours restaurants are non-removed tunes.

The hoarder yeast. There are the later hours unrepentant calm
where'd forward corded "that they write about" is quite here
to scheme her more than ours is need, then spin, then cotter due
their balloon not spent at the vacating sentences he said he

said is quite described against the wall nor hooters paned
expression turned at the corner out again against the tide's
position held in tense or outer's other grins at time told
the heart's exploding functions repetitious aims restall doubt.

I'm the harder at the way, then, set, then molded out light as
light, and as, to told harms no sway upheld informs
you outer ducks setting row upon row then song'd outer
nor remiss passions their own dusks remove then seeming.

nor against nor outer. Then, I'd held informers out to this
eyes ar arc's heart & substance stalls removers down
their own intents lesser here than not, at love's at.

II

My dick. You'd set sentenced hours are not remit nor
calm particulars heed no center after ours than not
at substances bent nor calm occlusion in within chants,
but took to evers hoot, plane, wisp was then, at bent.

Oar not had at outer others near them sours. Your luck.

**

DAILY LOG Oct 1.95
Thomas Lowe Tylor
“So many roads, so much at stake” Bob Dylan, Dignity


I

Longer forms permit passion its due and entry
how you'd painted-out her eyes from former stains;
these lighter hours remind you of whetted outward light
between her eyes, a spot and send her out again.

I'd at had. Was enough, or spread? Nor denial not.
Though. In between sentences roughed plantaris cast
nor forward claims to halt or sing completed rooms
are cast and doubt removed, relived in terms other.

Then no holds release after calm no season en retard.
What's seeming less intent or hovered motif's claimant
was removed, a tumor, or less visitor than plinth,
or scoriated hoop intend echo from heathered palms.

He'd them after other authors, calm remove no smokers in
within chance what takers had implied, thus beyond scope
intense to idles in daily life retain improved wassail term
she'd been sent'or whipped-white shafts' rude snouts.

Inert prudes resign their anchor-wit, them stuffed ports
hold not their own Captain said's bye thanked betters ought
apparent clues for tooth sd reel, then fish behead, otter
's musk healed animate platforms of attentive spoons laid.

Other rovers correspond. Plight attends fancy, weald. Not.
Hear her then spent actors remiss perspire leaving the
butt held to send her center short marks permit, en coeur.

II

My dick. In shower short shaft white extent to purple.
From retreat to pure stance; another shallow beckons-out
there pride re-sealed then pusher spots a sigh coming
at outs from poorer sentiments as revealed daily meant.

Love's weigh no rancor begin explore tunes; what luck.
*
DAILY LOG Oct 8.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor
The generations come and go, and all enjoy life in its inexhaustible abundance. (I Ching)

I

At the gathered distance, more signs of welcome interlude to
what's going on within circumstance, another line reminds you
that's been into the passage itself, some human intermingling
among your other partners climate and song; filler intrudes in.

Heeded plint. Her motor overdrive a cloud-day clammed up inside
last pointer lost, these other days rescind or motor forward,
where the journey is it. Quest of what leads forward itself
some answer for perpetual signs are scattered ahead an interlude.

their own language soothes you out of forgetfulness into light or
seeming-set, some inner resolve manifest designs flat or counter,
the plinth itself de-stall nor reminisce them headed pints recall
within the lines' semblance thus cosmogonic reclusive pays in.

Or oven after other offers open out. That's simpler than not,
her hour of entry less a mystery than an absence, what's memory
is not no longer huddled handles sets their own seclusion deals
-out what spentered within house & more spartan ponies released.

The formal entry intervenes substant & profound hours nor set;
at outer hovers inter-tuned spigots reflect reflect their sames
from dustered hearts some newer plasm interlineated hart & palm
their own within chants he'd heeded plud mort d'Anker pune.

I've no sentence. Here's relief spelled-out arcs do flood the
pine remnants their belief in love a newer ankle turned outer
erotic presents then code-at, her polar smoke betuned again.

II

Your dick. Nor act-as-if. Eyed Nor Dad, them-at, oaf.
Thence spenter dude, he's rewind thence what's love, do
then the heart's own sway betide lyrical shit, here's enter
from foment's calm then deed between yourself & outer.

At edge, the world-away beckons & then responds again. My luck
.*
Daily Log Oc 15.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Ed’d out. Calm day follows disjunkt outlet
Pass to less remote areas underneath sense,
but outer’d houses at remote sensors flung
doubt erases censure nor hosted parties’ time.

You’d at blisses called more inner research involved
his own distances resolved from the flighter pool
they’ve callowed one two three anymore detail
therein nor outer clutters distinct arrows noon

where held’d hours declare newer blooms at
Northern reposures where’d thence a word or more
holdens called-field doublers recall flutter
whose arcs deny less now & thence restore

Homer scuds pealer mist descry polar attribute
needles flood flower her’s smiler the poem
as her legs delimit pressure’s tounger heart to
resume there-touch angles markered silence.

These hours spoken acts recall tenor leaven, nixed
meals the souler spoke and centered at love’s
peculiar mix of the neglected & obsess. Sky’s
laters rebirth and love twin signs of release.

Hard between yr sighs, another spot and room
persists beyond expectant airs nor remote
passion holds intents the purer shower in plan.

II

Your dick. I’m not schemed between yr eyes, a spot
and center poles relaxed berms remind overture
to hints between remarks that held nor shines
have spent responds acclaim signing hours’ repose.

Then-spun light-slaked dust of centuries. Our luck.

*
DAILY LOG Oct 22.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

True, I'd scorned nor hollow, in confessional mode
made certain of my others, they in less remote
corners around which less mettle lay undisturbed
by the centuries in this hour where repeal alerts.

Though what's come aside rewinds you into the present,
no other matters allow nor fallow-out desire's realm
at hand, though handy enuf fer yew, the others decide
to wait it out at the deeper reaches from which no.

But less-than-perfect calls the dodge a stirring resonate
betimed without no pressure within chants allowed begin
at helded skin affirms what comes ahead again against
your streaming hot limes between her eyes, a spot.

You've scored apart no limner present in these scenes
at their own resonance pit and calm re-seen to me
what's clouded scarp & term reclude besenter from
at held, at poring pinter hears within sound, another.

Tarn'd. I've stroded hid no longer awaits time's sentry
here within light coming through your hand, like, what's
gathered around you for the dark journey hears thus
the ancient wooden spoon, clacking on the bowl again.

This is the three you wanted to meet again, butt held
and firm, though cleaner hearts beseem presence
its outer come inside you through the arc & shine.

II

Your dick. Never said sad hours in retreat no recompense
becomes outer sooner here than not. Nor dissuade encounter
starts at here, that liner called out less intense though
still arrived, still portioned at cosmos unrestrained.

North of doubt, he sees light renew the heavens. What luck.
*
DAILY LOG Oc 28.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Concrete realizations from emptiness obtain full,
as what's finished closer airs their own trasnmit forward claims
the other days their own complet to firm founders leading
edge & claim to palmer set out ahead of the very line.

You'd mean. No harper un-intended signs fall aside you
Eyed haddam. Lurker shit their possess'd within obsession
At armor, referred-out music from beyond spider-guts' retention.
Throat ardor the link was at had, late arc de-told again.

Your heart betweens art & science with intermittent claims
for forgiveness forward touch release the emptying freedom
at what's not indulged as taste or samplers oven out
the spinner his left and right hand s & the design of centuries

Platers' hearth what is central nor cored remits their own
when upended light there than bounce upon reflux returning spasm
eyed at heart too in unrepentant pleasure made the tour in
light digressions called in within chance to hold & let them go.

Spurred out, node out. There are some withers here
& not unsponsored nor made sore by their constituents
see & sense there what's not occluded from inferior
stout, herd among sensibility or favorite words their own

The sign of times not loft but there again remark beyond
the information and what's tinged from insensate disregard
from inner thighs their own workout un-challenged here abouts

II

Your dick. But left along might satisfy the heart
& leave internal sighs the same but not responded
lines among your less exclusive hours en retard was
at had the leaner spine wast new forded arc again

toast at the leaner hour the rose restore. My luck.
*
DAILY LOG Nv 4.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

What's scoop & lair this jeopardy sensation heals hears musk
remainder of the healing mist which swirls around your confusion
to rear the day its lovely head the reminiscent center of sleep.

Other sensations deride mink its delimit nor usher'd out to recompense
The Souther claims of inattention settle it out another issue repeats
something skinnier than long, outed like a gank, plastered skins
their own remiss but shouted longer sporan he sd erected

Though the plungier reside hints, sense, whatever occludes
then dimmer gone a bell ringing through the orange trees
(are you swift enough for that?) plucker stuck-shucks sux.
might mean you met then skip center central's ire puds.

Heat at the skimper derm nor plodded arc nor intermittant
throats as target slime tubes where'd nostro's plenitude at
markers slide decide what she's apt or motivations scrim
delete then hover at the lurker's sigh, ah, his door agar-ton.

This uh welter yard-out scum of the world's beast inclining out
to todo blasto signs within chance observe declarations
at the heart & center of design excesses of luck decline your
froward planes their own decisions mate near perfect

the shuttle rime or heather oar-skipped tenter hooks delime
ner-puds stacked at synto-edge to foreign mail decisions
are lefter sent thin derided woks imply sentencing tours
to the end of time's slippage forms weather-boy's shouts

II

My dick. Then deeper nor tremble nor impenetrable mask
the one decides thus features relimn dusk its returning tie
toward another; they are not no more seeming set, sent, center
add they'd lined no repeats embrasure, coming twice, light.

Entered light the godder plus, held drove to. your luck.

*

DAILY LOG No. 11.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Transparency of all words seek same sign leveled out
heat seeking muscles where at spoke, wheeled, uttered.
Nor single return out, what's become another late lunch stared
Hosted links interbedded loams detail chance intercessions.

Heat at the heart's udder rowed intense necessitation clear
hot spuds deny claims yet clear the way forward plains
their own repute in deniable excess, nor hovered, spent
askers pin-dot relict absence healing alone welcomes

there'd day out-scuts him'r plotted air despair relumed
thruster pot ascribe nowhere your own seeming sent set
at hovered flames report sense's past restart at hone
some bone or folding jack staples book & let, at sign.

unfold that. Wheels of fortune declare denial obsolete, wintered.
I quit reading, wary of possession, an unclaimed presence in
myself. Interrupted prose became the rule of the day, where
prosodic elements whipped frenzy's discord to apt proportions.

Increment, whether a change in porno-refractors delimits
pleasure's portent in the main obscure yet present here
no alien autopsy to the heart's unrestraint you'd plodded
within sense declined outers hucked it thence atuned.

No stroke unturned, part presence part other, you've maybe
hoarded yrsef from me & mine no longer outer seen in
within what's there again reborn again & again the same--
as let, so have them then thin, heroes at air, thrown.

II

My dick. there it is, flatulent dishoner of penetrated musk
pealed her sighs momento of the darker forms released to
lighter ponds their own waves pinnacled huts intime set
host pun. yarded--gut flux, spean, nor floatered heart.

Axle, revolve cart to soon & clearant chucks, astir. Luck.
*

DAILY LOG Nv 20.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Your own voodoo stillness meaning like moonsigns inheres
even to doubt itself chosen in particle-claims no inattention
to what is there or not. Late tides have spun the day without no
sensation to reclaim the lesser arcs delay & finish-out here.

Aha. Like some diminishment banished beyond the day's resolve
"at houses flung" or was it "doorways" you'd bent her down the
way or been there done that downer diatribe delays forward motion
insensate claim the future's doubt erased unknowing vacate

or clay ore-arc fathom scent dour leases calm withdrawal
nor pinner dude--heals them outer on-their-own faces walls
does not retreat full flame forced encounters do not
eliminate the possibility of resonance, of continuing, of light.

But day palls out to rain, opens again at the heart's waves
waving ears and arms and legs spasmic celebration released
from spore-soul detractors of the limned sphere recovered
spew the doter at her musk recalls you upward again.

Her own sheepherder waited outside the rain calling away at
sun's remonstrance lifted sight & sign their own retreat here
the tumor sent recall to thrusting plain palms resist no
more the acres of unrelease do tell to human sensitives.

There's a stolen bird out back waiting patiently for noon
to seal the deal with overt schemes returning stealth
the heart's own questions making easier plumes within.

II

Your dick. Roaster, the shooter hucks affirmed nature
peal nor dyke butt held & firm nor plane attunes
relief at the outer urge recalls what's plussed er central
the hoary replume decays its leading edge blunted out.

Dune-thing wrested refuge from the finer air. My luck.

*
DAILY LOG Nv.26.95
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

Lates. Yr open heart surgery a poem en retard,
at no sorrier angles than what's ahead, piles of them.
You'd been at hat, no openers recline there posthumous
after dirt, the houses like another country, & its cold.

your own position marks you happier at last than not,
in the open-air amphitheater oars delete summons out
and hold affirmed a course is made then set forward
into the gloom we've not attended in our haste 2B real.

Nor calm subside, her ankles redoubled scorier boots appeal
within acts of often heroic temperament the magic dragon
less a sign than a memory. Nothing retrieved! And poorer
still the mute inheritance declared off limits to doubt.

No doubt. what's called from within is evidence of the
storm and its persuasion, another sad reminder of this
relaxed future we might repeal behind ourselves a
scooter in the mists delivering what we most feared.

Yet giving thanks at all, responding upward senses
still retain favor within the confines of who we are
in bird's nest manufacture and a persistent forward flow
from emptier houses permits undertakings in danger.

A fuller time than time permits; from food fights the plusser
outward calls us forward braver souls to hold their
own reminiscences at bay and collect them against acts.

II

My dick. Bar-coded leaking scient at risk choices
toward seeming recovery, yet obtunted scraps deny
another declaration of intent. Poetry returns in its
death mask latered uneventful declines passing unnoticed.

healed spore return seed impregnates time. No luck.

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- At The Margin

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


.
Rain stains the window in darkness pinging hard against the glass
while swirls of energy rail over the roof like sponges at dawn
claiming the night’s heirs from their own songs, the coastal dunes
reline these grassy knolls into their own eminent strains of being

shoreline distances between nothing and nothing else remain
strong along the tide’s lining of the hollow core of the margin’s
lane among trees on their sides and piles of vegetable ruin
where the open hours reside inside green and blue again.

I’d clung along these leftovers at the edge of this plain next to another
plane of gray against a gray which is not the same, but moving forward
among what’s been left by a continent straining toward completion
in hourly dimensions leaning left and forward in one motion..

You’d been the page itself whose words were grains of sand winding
among untitled monuments the wind whistling against your face,
stinging rows incite the sense of standing in the face of nothing
which is the nature of your sign and gesture along the arcade.

Outside, chaos un-tamed by what’s been the light source itself,
song, movement and time collide against the tides moving one on one
as unconverted remains strewn beside tire prints from big trucks
as the feet of angels trail beside the forward constancy of motion

impel thought in its similarities toward a recognition of air
and color specific in the charges laid against unknown
substances striking your face and hands like unwelcome dinners
set around the table with no one in mind and then abandoned.

You become me in this haven the elements deny themselves,
disorder remaining in its own destination from the center
blazing inside itself like a sign and outpost of the known
into location and faction torn from time and the space it has..

A series of accidents, a series of mistakes belittle your witness
what cascades across the margin’s opening in the darkness of the storm
and call you down into the origin of a safety you think surrounds
your partitions, called by the name you give doubt in its own term.


This wound betrays your stasis, walls moving in the sand beneath
your feet seem pulled down into the water, clams swimming
beneath your stains of sand, billowing inert forces penetrating light--
the door is open and calls to you entering into your own destiny.

This is the hour at hand, the blast from the black edge of the world
inhabits your own unknown hand, hesitant on these keys
at best believing you stand and hold what’s been ignored too long,
a sentinel at the peak of the house relives your building and song,

and lets the dizzying spin of thought’s storm become a wandering tide
the loom and weft of the woven ride this hour gives in claiming
anchor and palm, their own distances rising throughout the wind’s hours
thrown among the rolling dream which comes against your thoughts;

a broad gust reams the window tight against its frame and juncture
in the night’s beating streams and shores flat and firm along the way,
scheming in between what’s known and what’s not and then dreamed away
too soon to leave and too late to cry a silent prayer into the graying sign


..
This is what fell across the day today. A white spear of torturous air descending,
the wind always comes at you from somewhere else and then goes on
white puffs of vegetable foam run across the sand in front mindlessly,
parallel lines of white and gray and brown and white and blue and brown.

Names are the night’s right, from cloud to time the stars between.
what’s not given in less internal rhyme from door to door against the blue
which leans into the edge’s mass from what’s within to other destinations outside
or not marked to these diverse claims you make for your own rote purposes.

A day would becalm its pages holding forth in their own styles too much
to hold you down against the pressure of the words themselves & ask
too much, their own styles given out like a formula or a set of tasks
to clear out instructions made on the edge of the page at the margin.

Your hand lies across the bed holding a hackeysack of green and white
which gleans particular from being let into the room, not against you
but held and firm, she wanders through the pastures of mind in a lesser tune
and makes the dance to round as if it had landed on the surface of your mind.

A dream calls you into wet lines across the front of what is seen and leaves
as you claim your stories from acres of wood and refuge along the tide
and marks the air between us not mentioned nor flavored from any absence
among other treasures left like signposts into unknown disturbances.

Matter clings to the side of the bowl, your nutrition in question as if stolen
from later airs they’ve clouded up the beach and harbor in these landings of light
defining the hour in what is sent for restoration or for an intent challenge
spoken not as some diatribe--the truth is what is called forward.
.
New, uncertain terms are neither clarity nor the color red--
inclement ridges furrow the plain, their waters floating underneath calm;
deciduous carriage hears the man with two noses dancing to a wild refrain
& clings to your hope that this will not dismantle too sharply or too soon.

Future machinery comes into usage and denial of the time you spent alone,
not mentioned but still coming in underside the flattened coast,
a fragment out of place removing everything else from passion or hope
to cling and rule beside the hours’ motives in their common field.


…
They drop a rubber ball through small net-covered hoops at either end
and flow back and forth with pure juice and a determination unseen before,
holding themselves above the play of forms and sentences we call a book
nor left among other stars where the beaches erode and foam away at night.

A line grows out in front and then out extends into the unwinding sea
a grid into unknown darkness filled with organisms and breaths
coming as they do from interior marks along the floor and ceiling,
an incandescence creates a pathway into structure and form like memory.

You called me down from silence through unbroken layers of roots
between what is above and what lies beneath your heart’s feet
along the wash of light and time coming through the tide again and again
to mark the mind of your dream like blue and green and red mists.

This forgotten density of remove and stain neither clears the air
nor calms from beneath what cannot be removed nor claimed from
any other line along the sand inside your hand yet not recalled nor left
behind in the hurry to get from this precarious layer to a place of safety.

Night’s barrier the pinpoints in the sky through the empty dark ceiling,
reliquary to air’s dominion in the discourse of the heavens and the line
along which no transparency folds or spasms into something new and fine.
Longer signs enfold and eclipse yet call you forward here at the margin.



….
Axe no dendrite plain and simple struts these after hours
intense emptiness of forgetfulness strikes you in the wind
swirling off the sand looking like fog that blinds your eyes
foam of the hour curling less remote than the distance ahead.

Fog no hopeful truth its own dominion present in your heart
another rope to the infinite which calls you forward again
leaning throughout your memory’s time like a trimming
or a loot on the plane of insignificance you call your own days

,
your own dishonor came too soon to be recognized for what it was
a silent edge on the mirror of forgiveness, your own face unrecognized
by the followers behind you crowding up into the figment of the mass
which is no other than your other breaking into a billion future scenes

or blood on the sands of the hallway, imperial magnificence a stolen bribe
and the raw meat of the sacrifice clings to the rug in the upper hallway
where the silent weepers hug the wall without sound or pity in their quiet
houses of the holy abandoned and then reground by the stones of time

at edge and screen, no specific moment stands out, yet the scene recalls
what it is in the name of silence a matter misting outward calls again
your colors red and blue and green an invention of the eye’s mind
which flames and flutters its film among the plenty of the hours.


2.14.6

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- COLLECTIVE SOUL NOTES

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


The doorway opens insert row the pealer
sly derms the rotor puff you'd been spud

alerts, the thrower calms denial into mooner crust
crisp, the detail's touch, itself to itself
you know the rest

there's a story to shore, manacled repose the
thirst, too, an ancient denial from within
violent acts. I remembered you other days.

you have a message behind those eyes

I'd remoter spent some time away from my own innards
seals, lease leaders, the pusk, I’d hold down
lates. a sporn, sporan, pommer-husk, I’d tongue it.

U'l z. gathers rage turns it inside out
give it some thought; feels deeper within. taunt.
charm, ahm sur. you know how, waves hair
the pulse inner derms explode d a potent potential
writhing inner charm which wants to tall tell. touch.

in my own dreaming your slight sly smile imply some
necessity to continue ana-dermal interiority withstood


lates. i'd scud, nor pemmer tousche, tou touts toucher
the lates, suspend all dimmers, peal the plumer out a out

fast nix fox; east liner nor pin nor pude the mounted skin.

scrams the dust. dusks of the liner heart, your gear beats beating
hearts the doorway muskers loom intent and holds the deal aside
nor matter nannie mixes thrust deeper down deeper in intent the latest
skies are hued and hustled from deeper arcs of light than our you your
hours intense and personal the deeper achievement.

tight down the day, I'd seen a picture cycle child cycling
I’d seen a photo. looking back. out. there. questions there
she's question me. lecture me. saying down a problem there.

do you know what's sun, when you once a pun a pounce.d
I think is I said she has since an hour chocolate and a sconce
now she's question me. tales out.



this deke lates. de de dial
now's the tune when the watch is down
when the watch is down

there's
sign at pool, yours is the heart which is a puncture inside itself.
nor a memory but a throw, a puncture,
your a, yeah she's a question to me too.
to the problem lies, the do you know when the sun
where the rain asks. I come in your nose.
who watches the watcher, implement and claim

now she's question me. wen you want some times.
now's the sad chance could be wood play
she has since the sky now she's question me
au yeh
now she's question me.

letting me
to the problem roger
doe you know where the firm ascent
whereby you want some times.

where the rain when the watcher pulls
send send. says here the s tool too.l me.
pun pin do you where the the sun when you want some
t the rain falls where you want some some
da do you when you want some one.
when you want some one
when you w want to me one.
when you want some one
whenyouwantsomeone.

when you want some on who who one.
her child like ways just form the edit.

sigh she's question me./
less me babe
now the problem rise
here the answer
doe you know the sun sun,
do where the arc rain when you want some one
now she's question me.
yeh yeah
now she's letting me.
now the oppboemboem roger
do you want some when you want some one

where the rain falls when you want some one.

when you ant some one
yeah

ya

**
now the actual child like ways
now she's question me.
yeh she's question me.
letting go

where the sun a s
when you want some one

rain the rain
when you want some one

2

think I said said.
sad
she
has since said that topic of the sky

now she's question me.
now east on me m m

yeah she
question me.
the problem roger

do you know the sun
when
you want some one

where the rain carries
when you want some one
**


lates.
watching the world she cries.
when some one when the world skies by

she sky keeps immense
tales. when the sky
pasce outa outpaced the pacer
pache ca peach
(Peace)
the on onion once ounce, she cries to you
watching the world she cries
the charm
do you watching the world
se cries
the way the way we all come first.
wet went
last lates.

the change is here
of fits out
the later spores.

now my watch's true turned
now I now can claim
oh's the one
I'm come coming home

change has has been will be.
the time will tell, the now time ease rees.
now my cut curtain has been drawn

I’m come coming hi home. home
ease , this the calm turn out, hears
the daily dies nor plume their hearts either
hears them calling out
to
call
I’m coming home.

Ocean Park WA
Nv. 18.95

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- AT BEACH

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


1

What'd stopped at your heart
not another sign perhaps at
what'd stoppered heard out
not because spine wasn't in.

Belying the in within air, you held.
She sings to me without signs, at
sighing what's darker at the pale
or more intents do slow down this.

I'd held. But spore to link too fast
among slight strokers in her misting
the rounded, the platter in you spins.
Residual arcs, love's honor, to be pure.

2

I'd been here, too. Your fascinating underwear was stripped away,
newer fellows plunging hearts described as risk or at, but still the same
hearts woe woven willfully out at my own distances; looking out across
my pages between us something shining and wet just pulled from inside
you, which has my marks on it, as if it were me, pale pole rising out and
in again, would hold.

Kept aside us, there light arcs restore send
or at hold the blacker rooms decide out
what'll poke pasts enflame or orange to
'
touch you know, I'll speak her own rooms
In flashes art to become item was another meeting in the pages of
remind, or older feelings which once encapsulated or melted light and its
opposites), her smile was fixed in, to deeper arrows thruster palm,
coming slowly up, up into and being kind, you allow resting, or say
"again," uh, meaning "now," but huskers at the vine, or welling up within
substances (on hand) as reminder

3

At beach, no plainer songs revolve
and mark your heart your own
today, which calls her outside & light,
becalmed no other rings yr days

and nights, forded at the breech, an open
wave waving piner not which leaks
less milky dues or slipping, these are
the waving palms of night, spinning....

You've reflavored my heart, wherefore bland
or numb, now outer spoils to penetrated
light at sudden, hears her heart beating
and does not turn away. What mounted hand.

We'd scored wildly on the driving plain & simply
honored signs rewind what'rd spilt or chalk,
but river signing whomsoever, or you, to see
plus won will marker out a lot, say "pulling."

Or figure curling spoken, or fervor in the wand
beneath the skin, tongue tight and lining ferns
her won or due was willing at start & song,
a newer shine would pull across vast distances.

I'm spun. Are you my further day?
I'd huskered in, not wanting it.
Arc lines have opened. Your face.

nor remote. Lucks. Pealers floating
one on one is dancing, coming light,
unto bespoke what heals or firms

7.12.92

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- LA INFATADA

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


Herosion patrol. Nay, no sarks belittle nor beleaguer them as not, the rancor paling through the lessing moon, her sparks unwilling to reclaim the doubt you betrayed but left too far behind to sing or remember, that’s the clue. As, what’s left aside does not matter, nothing on the pladduh, your nostrils full of doubt as well, you’d not repluded in within chants, her play in and out of memory clues you into the road you left behind unwilling guest to the nomenclature of sound in the memory of man you trailed throughout the same highways went nowhere in particular but further on than the knot and plume of the sentries in their tombs of light, bearing their unwilling armor through the afterlife like a curse or an archetype of how to dance.
You skilled no platter on the mists of plenty like a marker in the sand along the beach huge dog prints lunging ahead of you into the fog along the shore of the last line of defense against the ghosts and spasms of what you let come into you in the night dreams of other longitudes where colors denote the code of the hours into music on the violin which clings and clues you into the now, into the room, into the latent fingertips along your spine scheming pontoons carry the dredge and bray of foreign lawyers dancing with long faces in the mists and spasms here and now in the light of time and singing and falling and falling and then letting go.
Healing forward into entities your own dominion finds the line along the sand and central hours in the mists of plenty, how you are declaimed into ecstasy in the unknown beyond what you noticed on the calm faces of the waters in their own denial of cleansing, this is the moment of calm you might imagine between sentences on the plane of time you inhabit at this particular instant of now and then.
Where’s the doubt you lingered along as well in the surf and set of the waves one on one after the other the big one climbing up your back like the curse of the centuries forecast one day or another by one soothsayer or another is not so clean or quick as this might be not really seeing ahead into the unwilling presence of the clam and glean of the warrior stance and set, one and one along the hours of the days you forgot to close the door and just look what got out… as this is the hour at hand and center sent the messages down along the highway too soon to be now and too late to be then, it’s the old balance of the spiritual equation between what’s too full and what’s too empty neither an absence or a repeat of sullen wisps of memory clogging the hours into their repetitions of dream and song.
Cool aligns the moto-sensate into another realm from which recall initiates the outer density of what’s cool. You’d imagined the rest like some ditty from the Celtic music on the radio, tales of broken dreams and eternal sacrifice in the rhythm of the days and days inside the drunken lounge and formal denial of the dream to manifest at the end of the song but ends any way at all the new line starting up to defect the rod and cone of your inattention into a vocabulary of donut and calm in the face of immensity, you just, just eat another and move on into the new moon descending hours are let inasmuch and forever a ditty on the moon.
Lay infatada hurls stoned the innocent of the first throw is he who is let, and that’s the claim of the past unattended to repeat itself forever hung in the hallways of your own recall all mixed into an unending soup of what’s left over at the end of the day you groundhog all over again the figure of the priest is moving into the field of vision like an acolyte of disuse, dreaming his own time over your own identifications with what is the known world in repute of unrepentant at last made solvent into some other movie mooning now and then a new light and sign made against the movement like ‘no resistance is offered where no claims are made,’ might remind you of the contract you signed in the dying glow of the century to the powers at bay which might or might not let you in on the ending of the song’s forced entry in the sands of mind, sing over and over, and make the darker days come sooner than not, your own worst movie is seen over and over, liking time and its song to another hour let in on the secret.
The interim president wept openly at the caskets of his family in their courtyard, and the cameras rolled into the season’s first disaster accompanied by their own busloads of equipment and emptiness in the doorways after the barnyard bloomed. What you might expect from a closed book. His claimant wed. This second blossomed into hours in the mix of plenty. This was the non. You’d not obscured the semen of the momento, hourglass and repine, but his own word choice lessened the token spring. A plenty in the sign of the marking spine. A leaner. A bank shot, off the glass.
Was it snark or outer? Nothing called back, the phone was unlisted. It was now or no other in the simple destiny of the hours, the blue and red of the moment, the here and there of the signatory, the elapse of the singular, the pineal of the robust, the singing of the song, the now of the now, the end of the day. Are there other past Cervantes? Here’s the element of rebirth into the same form, you’d never know, you’d be just ‘ahead of the game’ and not knowing. It would be an advantage you didn’t know you had, it’d be an eloquent point of reverence on your day off. It would cling. Youth ahead, but not exactly met in the distance.
Voices asided, humuncted like some other density, a further soil, an unopened lax, or a furthered hex, hoax. To lose the hour, you sail invested troops of air-light in their fortunate hours, a non-narrative repeater which sails across the highlights without intention or purpose if they are different at all yet not reminded of another aspect of solitude by the breasts of length you focus onto my face another form of movie in the line you make around something new, this is the hour of calm repeats where inside proper marts the lingo sneaking in and staying for a late launch of inclement storms ranging from left to right to now and then, but at least manifesting the particle in the cloud chamber full of sound and fury, like the tale of an idiot, meaning nothing.
This, now. A spunky dee, laid to rest in a punch through the wall of the jar to make something new, mugs of coffee with lots of scotch, tales of negative space… This’ll luck or not, now he’s crawling along the side of a building far up in the sky, the detonator is counting down to zero, this is the media sign of the moment for your constant integration and manifestation, this is the repetition of the sign which makes you crazy, the mirror into which we seek forgiveness in the hour of the virgin of our thoughts unrepentant for your loss and plenty, inadequate to your sense of self pity and renewal, unleashed against the torpor of your very signs themselves, lost in the portent of the present moment, into the this of now.
Reclines détente, affords less accumulations of more density affixed to the shadow. Here’s the doubt a manifestation of the rescued distances noticed in their own repetition a receding palette of assistances coming tiredly through the head, that’s your beleagured creations in their picket-fence allocations of the monumental, billboards of facial hair, numinous yet indistinct, how’s your own recall forming images in the mind of man, the self of the patterns of recall impinging on action itself with pain and pleasure electrodes on the trial and error mixture of incoming, sir, there’s incoming, splam! You’re on fire, sir, and the ship’s goin’ down, man, we’re goin’ down.
Affixed or impermanent, the likeness is both a retribution and a clue to what has come ahead of the sign of your inner lurking at the highway’s signs themselves betruded within the boundary and claim you made without cause or intention, here’s the hour and there’s the sky, another lesson calling you forward into the experimental wasatch of the next wave of innocence breaking on the shores of any magnificent toe-wool wound around the door. “Viva Los Vegas” on mandolins. Bob Dylan on speed. Raped ascent. Lingering attributes, the nightmare refisted into your max. Your dreams abraded into dusk. Sack rent. At the door. I’m reminded of my self at max, intentional and reputed, yet snacked at the mosquito net like a diminished reliquary, a sandy beach without logheads to bemuse, without refusals to pawn and stuff with the afterthoughts of ominous soccer games in Spanish for three hours in a motel near Carpenteria, now that was an afternoon to forget, but you couldn’t, you were there.
Bound go the hoops in tell and spawn, like a dune central prolific and intents or outer, maybe just in tents. I cut the wood and built the fire. Lame attributes of the non-mute, less vocal then nut and spaniel on their vacations. Loot the plain of its well-intentioned missives you’d not curled toward the sad vacations you didn’t want to take, the children crying all the time, you couldn’t forget the days you went away and hid, there, in the closet with a box of papers to sort through and re-order, just to make it right, with the radio under the bedcovers with its own light and heat in the dark of your wondering. That was the open sore of recall and inflammation, hustling at dark in the momento of your fate.
Lar’s no filla, stick a boon nay bun her plinty nix’d a sore recluded palm asided flint and pict no manner in the schoon yet sail here plenty more than that. The light obliged to reflect as its dignity rescinded from the anchor in the moon you’d next and sent her packing, too tense to respond to the mixtures on your plate that’d been here and knot and yet unasided from the packed train rolling south at Christmas-time, women grabbing at your hands as you walked down the aisle banging from seat to seat, yet enclouded within your own fury to be unresponsive to your self, backed into another corner with your own paint brush in hand and settling down to leave the hours behind yet managed in the details of the southern campaign which was waged without memory or purpose, any please to your open scores of the whole thing in its unremitting distance.
‘A Simple Twist of Fate’ you hum on your own collision with destiny, your own, and you laugh it off like a stoic or a wiseass; no pass, the smooth does not relinquish its own partitions of the air into some namable quotient, a god photograph on the walls of your recall and claimant strategy with respect to the unknown. It’s no use, the air crowds you with its own spume and clatter, a sandstorm at the beach, waves breaking in your dreams all night, yet the clatter is still there in the morning, the full moon hanging out over the sea at six with the sky going from gray to gray. It’s out, that’s all you can say, it’s made its move and you’re out there trying to laugh it off, brain-wedge, spastic soul-farts snag the stairwell from foam integers relaxing their hold on you. It’s not too late to just give in and let memory drown you in your own distaste.
Empanada’d scorn, your three-in-one dinner special, with the long, dry rice grains pushed up against the curve at the end of the oval shaped plate with the smiling face of plenty pushed up into the middle, deep into a sea of soupy black beans with their crown of cilantro, a cold bottle of Sol on the magenta-blue table on the terracotta floor with your heart ticking systole, diastole, day after day seeking the ballast for survival and the new moon of exploration and being at one with the evanescent flow of time through your fingers, the running sands of time of the empanada on the plate.
Rough treasure in the mix. ‘Amazing Glace’ the Chinese choir sang with a straight face. It was too late to laugh and too soon to cry, it was too true to be real and too real to be true. Busloads of them, tied up in sweatshirts of ownership and noun. A flatulent posse of wandering tools of the realm, individuated at the non. Eyed Haddam met his eyes with a wooden stare, the enema of his people in disguise in the western realms on a mission of non-importance, a tourist of light and dark. But caution is not of the winds, and the chase is not necessarily going any where in particular, you’d be sure to admit that. It’s quiet, like a spell, no one really wants to think the worst, though there’s really no reason not to, and not just to make yourself feel worse, or maybe better, but perhaps just to feel anything at all, here in the night of innocence and reason, here in the fading of the unpretentious and unrepentant noon. Here in the absence of the portal, here in the crust of night. Let.
Enflame no pleasure beyond its mist. Pale your own sentience internal spawn release and cling, the hour marks its paste into your aires and tremblings. Mortal is the claw and song, deep in the marrow of your heat and cinder, trail and moon spun into the quiet shine of the true and the seal of the particular mark you’ve made on the rest of the day. The trail winds up into the mountains where it does not end, nor time entire some cool relief to send your penitent marks upwards into the smoke above the fire in the tent you called a home and center of your time. This is the moment of which we have spoken, and this is the place which has no name, now in the hour of the hour and here in the place of the place, where the sun shows its depth in the moon of hours, here in the absence and musk of the time which is growing short, the seas rising and falling, the grain growing deep into the center of the earth’s own beginnings, deep in the seed of the hour itself made into something new by your declarations; now in the time of seeing does the image recall into morning the song and center of our being, now in the flame of the song in the time of the hour in the center of the day at the end of the song in the matter of the moment, this is the moment of which much is written, deep in the center of the hour of the moment of the matter of truth.

Ocean Park Washington January 29, 2005 © anabasis
2606