Thomas Lowe Taylor -- AUTOBIOGRAPHY

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Time and Space.
Passing like seasons of air, dark edges in the symptoms of movement; born as though discovered, and furniture and the categories of the floor where the dust disguises the grain of the wood. He walks down the hall, and stops at a window he sees the seasons in their monumental chances, spreading beyond the landscape as roads do, like boundaries or ideas, and leaves them falling.
The air is full of consequences and passageways, labyrinthine, lighted from above. The roasting figures are indicating that he pass left. He passes. Another figure, a man with feathers runs past and leaves the air trembling. The sun releases everything into scale and overturns the city. The sun converges like a line. He leaves and turns and embraces the sun and the old man.

Pearl Harbor
It's not that I was born during or at the beginning of a war, and was hardly even present, but I have been told about it. There was some driving around and a great deal of unsureness. I stopped at the mild truck and watched it, played milkman and driver. The solitude off my mother was unconvincing. When it was dark it was very dark, and we seemed to be playing in ruins. No/one seemed to have anything to say about it. "The Japs." We stayed at that house along time. I don't remember the other one, where we lived, I guess.
The boat spent the days staying in the same place. And cold and foggy when we arrived. At night. Guns booming off the day times, lost my shoes, sick at the railing, and only four.
From the top of the hill the cars looked very small, the streets like a grid. I saw that in Oakland twenty years later, on the hill, with my wife, the hill sloping like flesh all around us into the dark and smog.

Hacienda (a)
My brother is in the trees. The whitewash has a mud/medicinal smell, a doctor in the house. The kitchen echoes, when I had mumps in the coloring book. We spent the war there waiting for someone I had forgotten. Mother left mysteriously. Summers in the orange trees, mixing with other summers, classically serene. The stacks of railroad ties. The house by the cherry tree. My grandfather drove the car slowly uphill to the reservoir where Chuck found the snake.
Voices echoed out of the kitchen, rocking around the house, the house held the war away, and what of the next? The schoolteacher guarding the property.
Mud walls go down to the corner and turn; a gate through weeds to the garden; the lath house might have bats but only ferns and cool, wet air. We go in there and wait. Or lie in bed in the afternoon dragging everything out in long, thin lines.

Hacienda (b)
Medieval, elaborate earth worn. My grandmother's six daughters repopulate the earth with warriors. By warriors, clerks are born, managers of the kingdom, the estate sold to...
The sun beats on my head; cool my toes in orange-tree shade.
Trees which bear.
In the summer we eat fruit and sleep in high-ceilinged rooms in the afternoon, and wake to step through door-sized windows into the herb-garden.
Night fires burn, reflect light of indian rugs.
The sound of Beethoven from the study.
My grandfather smells of his work, drags the sprinklers up the road with his car.
I jump from the wood pile and break my arm. No swimming that summer.
My grandmother shrinks into "red butter." Drifts from the pictures in her nursing home. Away.

Davis/El Centro Streets and trees
The sidewalk goes down, diminishing, into the dark, like an arrangement. The trees canopy the town like weeds. Immense plans of streets when I am either small or large remind me of my movements. I relate to the town in rags; I move with the oak trees and mark one and then the other as a boundary. When I meet this one, town, it is spread out, with all the boundaries present. My senses allow the village and then no more. The desert passes through me; it contains us, our community of houses and orders.
Containment is definition.
The people living at the edges of the desert.
A mine/hole dug into the earth. Which we explore; I dug one, too, covered it with boards and had a candle in there.

Differences caused by time: the vision is double. Living in two places at the same time/the street goes down & turns and when I saw they were late or missing, so I thought, and ran, terrified down through the trees and across lawns and fallen leaves to the (brown & white house, like saddle shoes I sd., even then, to see if they were there but it was a different (not different but looked to be that way
She goes to the market, I walk around, sniffing at the edges of things, turning over these "new leaves."
The houses lay on the ground as though set there, they did not grow; but in the other one, they erupted from the ground like solid rocks. The village in Greece where they agglomerated.
A community, too, in more than one place or time.

My father
Then who is he? Especially when I lose the way; no appeal in memory. I can see about tasks, that one should work it that way and no other, if that's the way it has to be done; you tell yourself that. No appeal in memory, in examining what I think about him, which is in the end remembering myself.
When I saw him last year, he greeted a stranger, I to him thus, and there we were; it is the order of things which is my father, and that flesh only a transmitter (as I am).
Inasmuch as you find a method, you find a new father. Get lodged in that; and so separated, with ;yr. father, that there is no struggle. One is, born. Thus.
Father is blood and death and sons.
Father is love in acts, bending at the work and following it into color and other forms: bird, fish, horse. Father is movement through all the forms of life.

War
The habit of organization, when you doubt yr. knowledge and enter this love agony. The acting out of fear, the highest of the arts of man, to no end, to no relief but, giving in.
The lesson: never give in, never organize beyond your capability, for the far interest lies, to support that contest, as the machine is so designed/designated.
If life is the mirror, and war is the failure of life, then the mirror is empty, black.
A convenience of time, a quality of the elected gods, to battle the inevitable suns and to defeat the commands, to release blood in some design convenient to eloquence; to justify final facts of fear and pleasure.
No hope in that, I grew up on it.

My mother
The fire at the center. Read that. Or whatever else gets that close. Moving in paces and flesh. Mother is no action but being which disintegrates in space.
Rain and evening, or lapsing into the days as passageways. Food or the act of preparation and relief at the conclusions of time or death in other births or acts. Art is the mother. And her flesh, mine that is, is relevant to these certain few specific habits as I melt them.
Location, inasmuch as it is the center, the maker of maps, is the voidless motion, or the space capsule released in the heavens.
She comes after me, still, old and cautious, following the forms as they came into her, too, leavened leavened.
Rhythmic and known. Mother is still destruction.

Living in houses
"House, a machine to live in." Promethean.
Wood or plaster or an estate made from sun/dried/mud. Time's relation as metaphor.
Where I grew up or out was in those communal habits which contained/protected m.
From what, I said. The room, couch, wall; find the corner and consider the rest, the color or the craft. Designed. I never thought about that, as it took shape. I defined in my rooms my vision of what I saw. Desks and pictures still held my memory solid, like mail. The contours of beds are with me. I can see the bathroom lights. When I was sick, the quality of my fevers infected my dreams. Strung about like the solemnity of holidays, my primitive childhood wherein what was real danced and evaporated. Was I ever ready to give up my habits?
The houses: tracks and passageways (meetings), compartments and areas, also inhabitants, as in the experience, that the room changes as you look at it.

Going to school
Was something I didn't understand, but did, and excelled, and did that.
Chairs, iron hinges, books and pictures which compose structures which half interest me as if I glanced at them. The girls, about whom I have endless erotic daydreams, some of which I occasionally enact. The teachers, who I try constantly to please. And the work, which is always secondary to the setting or context in which it takes place, and which seems to me, even at an early age, contradictory.
There are alignments and organizations, official and unspoken which are present in all playground tournaments and chance conversations. The system of the school is universally suspected as something profoundly dangerous.
Occasional conversations, like moments, reveal themselves through the work, and in the memory, then, certain relationships flash out like words.

Living in communities
The clothes are washing, we visit the firehouse/idolatry of machines, the man in his uniform, uniform, brass badged: selling his talents, or changing heads and hands, and talking a very public speech. To meet your others, then, making their turns and changes, wrapped so much in habit, or in the newspaper. Down you go, into streets, into wheat, into blood and soil, like time suspended, like glass spilling from the shelves. These sensuous earthquakes. Where work has use, in the village, and takes the shape of language. Speech, and the city, exchanges and plans. Who has his hat on right (right side up?).
I was "in motion", down tree-lined avenues and in the American movies, and saw where they stopped. Memory: the revision of the senses, dreams, check-ups on your value or state. The community: a reflection of your self, and holy in its rituals, buying and selling. There is a picture; there they are, in front of their machines, looking up into the camera. What I like about snapshots is the actuality.

So I saw in all those towns in the ages of my own youth, before they were swept away into same/ness. they were all the same when they were different, and now they are all detail, and I hear my own breathing constantly. Twenty-five towns, maybe; spread as far as they went, and no further. Cabbages, or colonies, strewn from the soil.
The photograph, again, bending the light away, into lost, flat space. Incongruous.

Beer
Fifteen. Air of mystery: such seriousness. Steal a case, drive around. Drink. Wait.
Of all the passages, the strangest compression of all space, to locate the holy rites in such external activity, to identify, to become, to elucidate, to let froth, to capsulate, to initiate.
The metaphor of being drunk, and of appropriating all the gods for your own, for friends, to enable scale. And then to see it lose, as faith or as words drop and fall.
Where do you get off with this vernacular. I tell it from this distance, that the visions I've had have been terrifying in their commonness. Leave that! and get on with it, with your own business, language, and make it work.
Beer, eloquent metaphor. Loses its reality to the test. It all moves away from that, too.
Beer, asker of questions, making tastes spoil!
Beer, no singer, no song, no companion; medium.

College
"Moving from the present to the present."
These initiations of speech were profound. Voices now distant and motivated, style sensed as the content of language. That as a decadent culture discovers itself, spent, that is, it decorates. Time you say, and utter the colloquies like the tough air they move about in. Right thought, right behavior, right mind.
Well, do the papers, do the weeds, do the floors with wax. There is no relief but doing them over.
Making lists and signing names. He has his journeys tended. Energy is time, and time is spent in journeys. Define.
Today, these colors: orange, red, pale green. The body's blood. Released and tended, opaque, like a vision of flesh on flesh. Energy, like exhaustion, diminished in form by the pulsating rhythmic figures inside the bells, inside the monumental stone buildings.
"to accommodate more and more."

Space
Silent climax fulfills. The air, the air is too immense! Out beyond, peering through windows or curtains, parted like...a pause....
Sawing wood is close work. Songs dim and loose. The rejection of space for the personal. Following and following, as if syntax were lost to ether. Like the habit of eating, like the noise of ghost-buffalo.
Who knows?
Make taste follow the dictates of reason. Of reason. A journal follows these dimensions. Twenty-seven miles to the far left. Stop. Twenty-two miles ahead of that. Stop. Turn. Go twenty three miles to the north, then eat lunch. Fuel. Head inland, go past three oak trees, their leaves turning bright dark olive green blue. Watch sunset. Eat, sleep. Next day head back, diagonally (how the mind divides, and turns it down).
Every mark counts, accumulates. A secret taste.
The air beckons, empties, chases the moon inside, like data. Translations follow, other languages develop, the moon differs.
"Ruined by time, the architecture of the present displays a less than sensuous arrangement." Nada.

High schools
Your topic, fruitfly. The seasons passed, like watching.
He moved again, into orange-red trees and the rocks spent with their seasons, too. The rhinoceros charged. I doodled on the topic. What is the topic. Definition, that's teaching. Health, and round rubber balls. Assigned, like colors, and the walls.
Approve.
Night turns out like that, dark and empty, where the visual fails, where sleep fails. And where sweat diminishes time like energy.
Well, it works, and at this close close movement, where the glands eat at language.
Explain.
Words, like training, are diminished by use. "What did you find out?" The velvet mortuaries, apples from the moon, inevitable and tall, rotund aliens from the tree.
When it moved, without reward, and the categories fed themselves... History, like Science, a construct. The mind glorifies its movements. You resent reading.

Graduate school
Maybe these voices and rooms are only programs, designs, or steps heading to a goal. First time I say, "Put it all together!" The voices almost drown me out, first time at heresy and good work. Still, I'm in the dark and I know it, primitive, merging from a selfish cave/cage. I manage footnotes, laundry, a love affair, poetry, and the first images of death. Temporary freedom has no limits, frees language and the imagination, develops moods from which there is never a release.
Pressure in doing. And holiness of books, which evaporates, as I encounter living minds/flesh in word, self evaporates in process, history manifest in the execution of form.
The wind blowing through the buildings is not separate and not poetic, only the wind. The grass has a cultivated look. It is, after all, a state school (tribe/cosmos/unit//thought control yields predicted output/machine lubes itself)
My heroic teachers, I think. Clerks. I fill in the forms. Harvey collects books and a wife.
at the end I buy a camera.

Teaching and marriage
"Say this and no more."
Socrates, midwife. I try the voice out, yell, burst, retreat and simultaneously divide myself a thousand ways and all succeed. In the fall, I marry, fall and winter falling like travel. The opening, without limit, without expression, into my own life, where the imagery finds its source, where I get embarrassed by the tools. It is not so unusual; fictional.
Modes generate thoughtscapes, lingua-tones. The roads in Michigan are also well traveled. "No thing but in doing." The photographs, too, adorn the walls like advertisements for a camera, which they are.
In the end, movement; the landscape changes (trees, wind, color of sunset, sun stretched ten miles wide by water vapor/heat/fog clouds. Snow piled higher than the roof.
The authority: a voice descends like music; programs spread out in the dust, the organization of the intellect diminishes according to size, problem, mode, form and direction of movement.
Peter goes to India: we go to Hartford, Greece, back.

Travel
At a certain point it is all experiment. You leave that, go from that. A village colors: the mind shrinks and stretches. You know less and less, and finally the donkeys speak back, open letters, calculate fares, pace back and forth.
They are all talking about it, about defining their lives in what they are doing and yet they are all visitors. Success! The superior man walks on the clouds of the ceiling. The sea breaks and splits, the fish grow legs and leave for the city. The open boxes virtualize. When you return, you leave for another place; the new city, the one you left, has flattened overnight, only because it didn't change. It works, too, and you are never the same.
What you talk about changes, the nights change, love changes into the night. Food emerges from the closet, bright music from the streets.
Are they all blind? The corridors move like waves and rivers of sense and space and divide like time and organization. The visual emerges.

Baby
So that's what it's all about: the houses, food, clothes, sex, books, community, law, cookies, land, formulas, poetry.
The fantasies of responsibility break like winter's ice dragging through the year: ideas take on flesh and come to speak. The inertia of myths becomes another song, immediate and trivial. That's all there is to it.
Speak up!
He is crawling on the table again, where's the order. The purpose of furniture is less to attract than to control. The room is a gymnasium,full of padded platforms. The sense of specialty, unique; visitors full of the same questions. Local details, images of infinite processes diminished and compressed. Opening and closing, rhythms of opening and clos/ing.
Like money, power in the possession of strong wills, moving through the acres of possibilities with their means about them; history where it comes through children, changing according to the voice, and not changing at all. What the voice sings is passion, or speech.

Berkeley, costumes, and the mail
When you go after it so wilfully, what you miss is the ease of it, how it passes you by, the arbitrariness of your own point of view... The movies are repeats and that's where the energy lies, in the succession of days and nights, like time, like suspension, like the varieties of immediacy. "Balance in all things, most of them unknown." Well, what do you know about that! The open door of decoration, where (the) poetry is as obscure as it is personal. Passing it on, too, like unspoken messages, when you look, at style, or the newspaper, there it all is, what you think is there.
What you get is a return address in the corner as a clue. Other writers (to they speak at all?) are flowing through the hallways, one who is very tough, and another just learning how to use a movie camera.
The machine speaks again and again. The machine speaks again and again. The voices, traveling from peak to peak, like echoes, like clothing, like the mountains, like night time and sentiment.

El Centro
The end is only an opening. Continuity is a disguise, a category. What is fact is laid out there on the sheet, in black and white, most American of statements, especially the one that goes... "don't misinterpret this..."
So the wind opens like a hat. Get the newest permutation down, where the present is, and tell it to understand the specific ordering of dreams, that they are not arbitrary but that they are only dreams.
Capsule statements.
Let's examine the proposition of the autobiographical: let's ask where the rolling trucks come from, how old they actually are, and dismiss the driver as (only human.)
Most American of facts, where we began all this, of space. ("Let it go open.")
The dust is growing in the air, compressed as we are 43 feet below sea-level, from village to village. Your mind, friend, what happens to your mind?

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- ANABASIS LONGS FOR HOME

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Thrust team yips I'd yelled no homer in the mists
of chance left us there on the pealing loam
in host of nothing made no more than sentences are
misfit and strung; held in the leading pool
we dealt in determinate hedgerows, latented-out

Hard upon silence the wailing blood sentenced
you to loneliness under your own hand
asleep in the wool of utter's sailing into
but laid among the rushes in beneath blue
portico, lattice, the event tempo of doubt

Valley to witnessed calm, we chased oranges
out of musk and distances up the road to the water
in the barrel in the loam of summer's own inisists
these at the anchor barn of the sleeping pint
down at the wooden door, down at the song

Hailed as we were in the afterglow of nukes,
the jazz line emptied the heart of its own blue woe
and deleted roses from the vocabulary of chance
noxing patterned monks their usual accords where
homers dusker'd famous interns their butts first

You'd longed too for the clean edge of the willing
the marked flight of blue and green birds again
term of the rotating dome we describe in all our
stories, having seen nothing of love in a thousand
ears and sentiments having been sent to the lords

Maybe you'd said "Down, Fang," to one of the neighbors
again, not once but twice in the face of destiny
and gophers you long to go skiing in rice
pasting soya beaners into the relix and palm
loasting the permit strain into its own fortunes

And you stroke out for home, er foam on her lips
again against your tongue beating a staccato stress
on the button in her jeans, a lap made sinner
a scene made winter in your discontent, unbalanced
and sane on the beast of your own dreams again

Where'd formed some roast internal eyes'd intent
your maiden in repose some leafing scraps they'd farted
thus belittled from myth to carton on the milk, no more
feared than uh made in tents to seem a cartoon instead
but sofa'd into deal remute to beer at the corner

This is where you lost the cause and made another
country your own, made the lasting century into
a fashion and a song, and made chutney into a household
name and season on the calm return, here at the sealing
trim, here at the posting dream, positioned and sent.

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- AMERICA WHAT'S THAT .a rant

Anabasis
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Surely nothing kills us more swiftly or completely than insane
thoughts getting through a hole in the mind. [David Slabaugh]

Like a hole with no bottom
I never saw nothin
but the slat of passing
agronimations of the slit,
suck of the empty sign.

From roads on the highway of pun
litters of the dead peeling
nowhere from nothin,
and in the passing of seasons

the emptying of the dream
into its reasons.

//here you drivel into me
your useless shit
benigns into the tumor
of tomorrow\\

broken on the hinge of life


grey blue green flash of
the tube of light incognito
of the neighborhood's stance
& set of the broken mirror
into "what to do"

song to the freedom of passing,
here in the insufficient now
here in the suffering light...

Who are You to tell me tomorrow's
lying on the dust of my sons,
eating the shit of your flags
and yr teams of signing wasps

Now that the deal's done down
you grunt me the easy dick in
your hand again and again

Life to the strutting prow!
Your dying ship screaming
beyond the signs of our creation

Now in the fires of our own meat
we bear and beam toward the
vast nothing of our haste

leaving rope enough for the
laggers to hang onto
for awhile

Here is the light back home--
here is the fire in your heart
crying out renewal and love

and in the scabrous cannibal present
we dream together on the signing
of light between us

lining the hours and rising through
opening tones of renewal.....

...blah blah blah,
your sick fantasy bores me down
against the floor heaving,

a screw on the tight-lipped
plento of her scours and teasings,
roomed along empty hours,
another boom in your box
lined with flowers and blooming

No I never saw nothing but time
passing up yr butt like a pork sandwich

No name in the america of sensations
but a bore and a dime on the pennies
of what was left behind,
detritus of the plundered hone,
scarf of the lunky pintos
and their false alphabets;

Here is where we've lined up for soup
in the heartache of what the leased
memory of something fine

Here we have a commercial break
for the executioner's song
before tying up and shooting down
rapid to vapid the emptying of the
slut of inattention
her own corpse reduced to
rhyme and reason

...and i saw Amerixa suck the big toe
of plenty and spit out yak and fungo--
coalesced lungers on the frying pan,
oysters from the punk demento
in yr heart


So dump the looting goober on his
butt, a flinty poon her's own sabre
--this and no more in the action
of which we speak
of which we speak
now and no further

here's the door and no master
here's the way and no passage

denial in your sentences of doubt;
love in the arches of light beyond us

A lingo invested in its
own hopeless shame,
how can it success into light?
What whore can sign the lines of light
what son of loss deliver the
remains of the king into deliverance--
what emptiness can renew the light?

give me a chicken sandwich now

dress my colon in sentiment

forge the union of opposites with glue

Pierced tongue of the gypsy cunt
slates the dream into insignificance
leaving the dreamer in a trance
from which no one returns

hose of the scheming dunt
you please the face of the bitch
with your scheming front
leaving with the goods
leaving with the rest

beyond the stunted pane
beyond the flaunted wane

beyond yr fruited name
Armeskera, antinomial
of the new rapunto

hold and chain
rock and stain
enuf

I wake to find myself
in the dream


oystrvl 2.16-7.97

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- ALERTS

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Open templates find sensation

When the line, or peals off,
into distances reminds sport-cuff

I’d held a liner’s musk temporary
and polarized beyond reflected

arcs delineate your own flesh.
Eye-sock, the ear de-diminish

or hold to noise the day ahead
is roasted, poised inside time

where are you whining seen
there are doorways opened here

but the final absolution is reflected
is but a yawn on the flood of fur.



Still the hours glisten from signs
decried as if (as if) and when would.

Floodgate, adjudication of doubt:
refluxigate permitandre as soul

interferes the known particles have
their own remiss. You’ld benign

and into interior ministries, men
in dark cars at night. A post.

These hours climb apart, and
hold you by the short-hairs on

your torso-spin whe -splome
is not so sure of after all’s gain

Alert beyond sign, she peals
me down to dusk, ahead in terms
we never aimed to shore, at fault
and sign the doorway gleams.

03/31/95 4:57:38 PM

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- A G O N

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

He weeped to the spreading tree
answering no claims within destiny
however figured into the silence
nor spent nor enflamed, hour of

Diction of the slug, pentacle fin
at who'd been at, say, in wonder,
or habitat plenty hot to break it
out outer the planet skims and flits

Sulfur into the mark's orange fluxer
I'm at hoe, nixed in the plenty scorn
from hucks, from the petty donging
leaks the doorway spoon and functional

To Puck, the nerdo particulate homer
ink, listo-profundo, into the karmic stain
to carry on, lugging guts and spastic
sinker, plenty, noxious not alone ing

"To argue before him" arbiter, vocal
lane of the evening trees cooling out
warms these notes themselves affixed
lanes her doors open wide enclaimants

One who floats from the sea before you
arising within substants the eye of love
lingering ride of the floating pool again
answering echoes from other layers of time

Ruxto-bold no matter masks purplish dye
the marker yields touch again and line
what to spoke the ringing hour at hand
pulls you upward attains the day afar

Links pore tomb nor skin ragging doubts
where's love'd douche the hearts flower
day day in side what hammer poles arcs
lighted moto plenitude returns longing

Scores arriving upward flung healing tie
the duo, foment dies dying out laughters
affirmed return lining the tear aside in
side the tears floating inside her warm

Do you enter slowly dealing flame return
spiraling lights the day when at linger
too late for the dream, too far for the day
pounding out new hard returns all the way

Skip the bolt's blues lead away too soon
fixer door skip late laning fuck dome pal
ah, the roamer's foaming pin, a suck done
too late longing's loam, the heart's due

Hucks to deal, the newer arm's own longing
to be real, er, reeler due down dunes to
what's door not again agon the winner's due
no winter in this discontent's longing's last

So what passioned-out your name arrived
in time in time's tune toward semblances
dames docs another coil leaning down the
ages weaving terms too far to lean away

Random dusks their owner lining doubts
too far to seem away or not at all here
in within your own leaning away too long
answering yet again the loader's spinster

Here in dog goad it, you'll find its tone
"Shine like it does" down within you find
it holding water's waning donut compacted
show there at the loco bomb high traffic in

To the end of town where the packers drive
that's in the signer's motive kneeing dust
losing like thieves, but who's in back now,
listen like thieves for the answers, hands

Right of the triangle do it on your self
let the poor man wet all in your hands
zilch day fix nay shuckers deal the deal
not singing but flying afar and not return

What'd you feel encoded deep within something
pray the single spasm not reclining who's
year the prey kneels single does and more
the player the. pool knows just like a poodle

Major knot not's the fool his angle dealing
dicks their pinner dude his flailing ankle
doubts into self the plainer sin no mention
of it's plenty nor range nor motions without

Your own disturbant naugahyde peels potatoe
cunts ducks the rare outer foil of latitude
the forger in his mucks deals no other win
nay the finger in your dike spells disaster

Dream-resistant skin ganks danger out there
in her mists peeling clothing off and dropping
the floor the meat rising discussed inaction
her flavor rich to the entering eye you said

Humper dine suppertime now's the dime
lates sandwich the range of all time
decrease or wedge into itself tightly
spooling nothing ahead again for naught

Who wrote without pity and said little
else than what's penetrando the heart's
belittle now and them is Too real now
buttressed and calm to hold the forms

No respect. Warden art the fool's errand
no patter in the attic, but calm a head
would stutter the former alcoholic's doom
deemed dusk or dust, but held and firm

A heart is aching still within but not
said too soon again would smother the
lanes and lines of what'd held you back
in the singing time of what was lost

But let go into the seeming of the present
and scolded like one's self into the light
he spins, the mooning sign of what'd been
left behind in the haste to depart the scene

The smallest things pervade, describe
or hoard detail into mountainous poverty
laps of the deal sparking darker moons
to ride arise arrived into what's sweaty

Her crotch tongued in intent intense sum
of the dealer's own strong wine-healing
hope of the arks derider plunging vine at
the holder, at the archer, at the seasoning

7.13.96

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- ONE TWO THREE

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


1

Of course, this. Eagle-bean. and to go
as along of it, and have a red sense edge
often constitute as relapse response across the
figure of essential geometers, into into, like
he said, across into like identification, from
simple food gathering, the means of it & how,
that toward would become the term of it, how
as a lying in, or to be standing through
light (and passages as remembered acts, or
written history, sum-marized and legible.
But that remains, and such angling is
familiar, the appearance of words, but rather
How, to be easy or along and watch
to whom has belonging simplicity as a
string and ease toward crusting wood
beam ceiling red goal split from the
exact evocation of the light.

2

Which I know. Yes to yes, and "of"
being collapsed gender, an identification
that is, rather than be specific, to
hold over into color; their speech, or
acts, precise. I know that. But drive
this out, this and spell it; from & of,
who they are, the four & the two. like
ease belonging in plants, where pressure
the water easing beyond the surface of
it. (of) Beat a doom dog drug.
as long as it takes to do, there, as
seen, & extended, his precision I'll let,
and go, as dust, & blown (corner,
clamped-tight evo-evo-cative, and
sand, to turn turn and head in (over
(the head of it) & on out, to.

3

Which means & sinks along toward wood or dirt trails,
whistling or clapping, either distance or pressure, there is
a space-place (we said) as had, but still being verbed
like a literal, there, and sneaking, said but rough and
wait: three in a row, to have it up & then padded,
soft, close (the skin) rising from (where) and on, but.
to say, there, ear, to be the one & point of (listen) and.
not stopped: you get you get, arrow from & arrow
in, un-done, having the relief of sentences, pattern.
a wove, eagle and bean, sing as done pit, shortened
oh, a slide or (sharp angle, reflection pit speech,
the dog, cow, constant in having to ease on down,
then as moon-flux sharp & here is there, too, here
is then and there, crawling soundlessly. ease.

4

Flat & narrow cone, cave the perfect one, here,
and his name too soon as a sheet, filling like after to
the scale (of) and then: there, mark, first locale,
as shunt or splint, form of the offer, like described,
there blast out red-dust, click one-one-one-one. heave.
and splash-splice total red shift dirt-turn, slip &
name one, through to (of) the specific, marked the
initial to push-out from, have said, and then.
as the routine or lengthening distance. Ah! to
lean out from this marked space, head, in, wait,
bleed, relief and "ruby" or "wet" down &
the over-turned sphere (what?), original face.
The mailing list, erupted to the second as
done, the new easing, & you said "whole"

5

But following & a ring, brass, two of them as
(there) under the paper or being tired, and distinctly
flattened out beyond eye. so. there has as rough
due duty connect flap, or turn momentarily as a
shield, there, familiar/skip/weight, the pole up,
reflect any common of object to have the
total precede, like another problem, though I
don't see it, and cut to the left, as a house-done,
nailed, split & cracked, I don't remember, tho give example
to and shining the done-split red-cart ease phone
drape dirt, red like (coming back on its own, even
I know that, but have it moving over.

6

and I get it, wire, moon, the same, to hold
right, and check the oil, belong as dirt-shovel-
include evening-out as a relapse, the form of the
ear, ridged & caved, island without water (oh!), and
up the back stairs, knock & wait, or the telephone,
(hears!) light through the window (which I accept,
in sequence, where it whines in, roughed-out to own,
then, a weld or solder & over in the corner, split
giraffe, single cluster word-spoke-thought, he
wheels & dives, finally, sings in, to grab, focus out,
the hand; the hand to ear, what there, or no longer
silence, the dogs quiet, and shut the car tight.

7

Though he asked, and remained, all the one
in me as locale, an "idiom" or mode, said,
included in naming and then rush-out to get it
in collections of five or six, to recall close
whole, to listen over which way to spring besides
up. Ahead & unbroken. Color a particular. There!
and have that done, once anyway, I have,
driving around, a hill-over, dotting the
line on an eye-done sail, has writing down,
shield. First location sent, noted, and scaled.
to here (not me!) and right there, hear.

8

Though his left eye was red, and muscles slipt,
the doing of then, as now, and slight seeing, which
I won't know, won't. ok, But red dust, of the
dream-wind-song dusty sand, & how (where) to
be cold, too, having made a vow, there! Another
isolated stage. I get the one & initial, & creep
over transition, & here a shower of lead toads,
inviting, plunk, plunk! as fine a person as.
huh? as-as. So no information there,
retrieve, the absolute: Huh? & gradually
get the hard stuff, under-shore, shelf,
to take hold, farmer & fast.

9

Which I know. term-space: Blind, his voice
& no further reflection permitted, so do. (of).
no back or shed, to have at least two of
them solid before I rest, at least two, never,
heard the gnome-fart, slide toward a loose
approximation (from before); I heard, too,
about who did shadow (Fred Cramer) and the
perfection of taste an immediate memory,
tho I can see practically nothing, &
will have an interruption, easy now, to
be permitted by what the pace is, and
read it so, close, here, heard. Interrupt.

10

Which requires that whom-so-ever; or a tool-shed,
or an orange ball, but, rather, some specific evidence
of a shift in mode, some clear evidence of what
sequence persisted, now that the one has become the
two. was that clear? Before, now is
that; clearly from the second to (beyond) the
first is no lesson but a difficulty & precise. A
low high-level response. right?, or whose.
and there, at least, out beyond beyond, a
post-level of reaction, a predicate. carry it around.
again. or silence, or leaping or stasis, or
hunger, or any observable quantity, how's that?,
and no new law. couldn't imagine. borrowed.

11

First sequence. repeat. a schedule of precision.
roughed-out. uneven surface magnified, closed in
on. Zoomed. Reply? A figure, dazzling and
profound, slight and awkward, continuing through,
and no resistances encounterable by the very face
of alertness, to blurt or spend, and marked,
precise, reduced, as (of), as (on), as (bereft), to
wait, or be heavy, I know, as go on, "to
order delirium", and mark a pass, there, or
here, since there is a difference: more than
one device, or showing more than is possible.
What surprise, outlasting devices of reaction,
and settling, as a disaster might, down.

12

Clear mood of noon-wrestling as doubt
beheld, or a dialect, and discovery skipping
hesitation; that exact, and the notion
of it noted & bent around for convenience
at least like a lesson or reduction
of cause to become act, that there the
matter, the matter rests, & skips and
has its content done, bound, ledged,
or a period of time covered (all of it)
exactly, the story-telling (of) and that
very small notation, again, held
firm (wedged)(sanded), the smell
of tiny feet, an obligation and his
friends, roughing in, her visit (unannounced),
nor that exactly (to be exact)
as it is announced, & a map made,
as it is announced, to hold on, to
hold up who exactly they are, at
least from nothing, or the borrowers.



13

Here I know less. Than that. but the line from
of through from is not indistinct & some form
pursues with or as an assurance. the evocation.
mode of less & less variation, and the observable
quantity (enfolded) (likened) (convenient) but
precise. a collection. & no mistakes, to pick
up speed, flattened out (again, the thirty
or forty exercises to which a progress is reduced,
the one-in-many, first, & then the one, There!
No doubt, must have some inflection to repeat,
but "Copying" is impossible & sustained. Rice.
Any sharp object. it moved. Mysterious plum asset.
Choked, pauses or pausing, an example, too, and another
unheard thing, at least followers, of innocence,
and un-blank. worried. eyes shift out/& blank in.

14

Whose visitor? Preceding, burlap sacks, but why
actually (?) do it? and any other? besides what you already
have done, to be exact in that (memory of feeling) or
to operate with assurance (of). slow. "Verb" is a noun.
Second locus. especially for someone so large, a
severely negative assertion, and no Assistance for him,
and part of the lesson. especially slow/bearing. No Appointment.
not content to describe sleep. a box, a shed, an
opening there, to scan or seem surprise, and send.
and the straps loosed, his seat bent, nor angular,
rehearsal over the balcony, waiting and doing
other things as long as one wanted to, or as short,
so heaviness, there preceded, this blank "before"
and "after" pieced out of conviction and Assurance,
there is that much to remember. trigger.

15

Break: Shaded like (the metaphor/in which to
apply as have over one single, as usual, initial
burst through (now; here, locus one & two set, the
signals or intermissions recorded) and slow pacing
through to exactly what is there to be set against
the whole as reflection into which a work is set.
Now, set as A:B:C and Set as a point or Leaning
one's shoulder into, though, here, what is met is
that very thing one is doing (as, to "others" & thus
to self or "one") to distinguish where there
are no marks out or in, but Done & lain to.
That, as it would be (become): toward, and
through, untouched, but as comes to surround
or be defined.

16

Mechanical contrivances are the levels of detail only,
or a persuasion of emanation, reversal. as a detail
has its set or mark, to which subscription survives,
and out of a known resonance from (our "of" here,
of "of", etc); and certainly not "making" "words" (&
both set off with advice); that what is lost, precisely,
to method, says: it was right to rest.
and that without the underpinnings of exactly that, what-
ever origin was devised, "made out" had a purpose, though
the loci obscure this exact movement, which is
to say, the Meaning of this drift here, exactly, is not
clear, that one might lean in toward the New Locus,
or hang back, hesitate over a preceding station or point,
though simply looking up indicates that the work
has continued through to some established core: there
they are, setting rocks. twigs & logs against the water,

17

while last night they were asleep, & the security of the
surroundings (eg, darkness) is now manifesting "light"
& the sound of water. Burst-off. So in the copy (verbal,
for instance) the original detail persists, leads the copy through
to the origin or source of the very detail which is laid
open in the obscure act (obscure that it has no source
to behold.) each one of them had something to say, &
did that at the same time as he did something else.
but it was not simultaneous, it was vocal, it was "what
he was doing", tho any inclination to description at
the same time was impossible; which seemed to reflect
not so much on the materials as on the view or
reservoir from which speech came; Blip Blip, like
that, like that, again, again, after, after, paired.

18

at each focus, a separation into entities. A hundred
pound waterfall, and she will be surprised, the sun, move,
and details persisting over reflection, there lagged, tho
persistence in that to read-read it, lag-out again,
in this mode of repair, acting on one-self: how, #1 and
who, exactly, #2; how: as "Mechanical Contrivance, tho
seen later as a convenient lie, for the sake of doing
what one could (the photograph) and, Who, to whom, as
the very heart of the obscure matter, "energy" (matter
here as a part of the outline). I have nothing to say.
Pudding. elapsed motor in its green depth, shed-oven,
and leaning as a shape, floating red-gold-blue,
backing or skip-sailing, as a stone-water arm, and
then, out of forward thrust, from feeling feeling
to "direction" and "content". or: to "yes".

19

so: hesitation as a cause of function, as (I assume all that
you're saying as cause of speech,
and the "therefore" of common response
is problem and solution, there,
and the time-mode of space-content, right?
and rooting into (the ground) has a quality of intention toward
advance, toward (leaning or setting); as we had "set" set.
to arrive and go. that finally "work expands to fill the space
required or given" gives way to openings into which a passage
directs. Focal. And response, pause. Out of which necessity
of cause or fact, scarcity: to fill in, to maintain from
the center of outward toward a complexity of movement, to
Cause or neutral predominance, to have caused, to be caused
of fullness and completion & repetition, out of which
reflection (itself unto itself) such necessity of words creates
and dominates the lapse. Carrots, linguaphonic, ear-snail,
red and grease, to have in and out and stopped.

20

The center of maintenance or reflection, out of the progressions of
repetition; to have cause in tension, that is, and maintaining
all contradictions as that which precedes none of them, or
the coherence to dense mass or the density of being, or weight.
tripped, flung face down in the dust, there, like that. Shift.
So absorption would reflect reflection (at least it is apparent on
observation that it is so.) Thus, the increasing maintenance of
contradiction absorbs the problematic mode into a behavior; & the
residues of "image" and "style" lapse into speech as intention
or privacy. either way. Predispositions to "the natural" in
such behavior (Mine) come to darkness, as the mode of self or
of the ideal, the ideal comes to darkness. He said to release,
no pigeons, for example, as adjective, in a whole tomato, of
the car or friends and lap-lapsed, to sit or hear head.
That and no more, to ease or muscles split, the eye.

21

At the third of it. And across to a (The) set of Corresponding
(a) Associations (b) juxtapositions (c) sets, as a course,
(b) or marked, or these
analogies; of refusal and acknowledgement, as motion and furtherance,
and going through the directions of light & shadow,
of image & context, from what is original
to what is original, by way of example, of possibility, how
the patterns & adjectives shift to flight, out of alternation into
support or (where) (as) (how) (who)
the structure warps toward new
information (at the back of it) and into mode.
Though, here, as a going-over-it,
and what the lapses of ground & detail omit is
context, here sought & won, as a moment of purity and origin.
Dove's stomach stuffed out into tabled angular flow: I have the
pauses before me: "Begin" and he stutters off into the precision of
cleanliness & duty. But describable, though the
personal documentation has an edge to it
which loses the matter, again, admission, though
what was "before" known is here totally useless & forgotten. like
afterbirth, after the fact though tough
& emergent nonetheless, a word.
too many rounds of scarcity. a precise figure & change.

22

Such a property of elocution is rare, and the note there, of
equal tone, though it is remembered from the new back into
the interstices of choice, has a morality, forbidden from the view,
precisely that, taboo & selection, though, here, revealed as a warp
of pressure & tension. The terms up for review, clearly, are
maintenance and contradiction, as effectors of pace,
though what resolves as clarity or pace
is the discipline of (rehearsal rehearsal)
(through the content of "the learned act"), the measure of choice
through destruction, a progress of authentics, as I am going
over it again, As a figure of speech, a category and therefore
what becomes isolated from its causes (itself to itself) as
temporary identification, sandy point from which to throw
stones, the medium of selection, to say it again as in
the impulse to batter. "Here!" and moving through, where
it might lodge, as in the poetic, in the center of the line.

23

Who knows, as a statement of plasticity, from the heard,
at least, footfalls and (the alarm, both my arms asleep) Those
imageries of temporary location, that is, to serve as weights
in the easy connection of similarities, after which one pauses,
which is the very metabolism and flow of, source of, the
very thought of being, at number three, and how did it take
so long? Besides which, interventions of hunger and exhaustion
(which are reprieves) the normalcy of hesitation which charges
the impulse outward with its very cause & content, the
numerical interposed with the senses, bypassed in word
and artifact, where this has ceased to be reflective, a
cautious and sniffing hum from the bees and flies,
where is the Food! Though the past, as an arrangement
of stones creates the centrality of presumption, the very
use & need of spoken positions (postures, stances), no mask.

24

Sure, which is a learned argument, that would link
solitude with its fact. Naming, to come to the mark and
form of structure that way, out of one mode into another,
there is, besides that a notion of the ease Force required,
as alternating portions of the same response to different
materials, or the facility for study, which, somehow, is there.
A whine of silence, though what is fed, the Body-Flesh, and
pastured out through selection & vision (there!), to pass in
to the house to find a chair or task, flip and skip, though
renewing central foci, as if (As if!) the causes of argument
could be known (which they are) as partial, though, but having
nothing to do with the progress, which is partially true
and so, entirely true, though partially false: why. and the
hanger, there, the indication of the mode or reflection that
out of the one and toward the two, that in the


25

midst of its alternation, where that equivalence or balance
occurs, there is the initial to the series, three, there, having
fashion or interest in its core, the statement or act or
tendency of cause, that what bounced once has maintained its
force, constant and modal, through its two faces into the
new, to isolate information at its very source, contrary
to all positions of the former (state or field) where it
has paced out into all conditions for favor, experienced
and communicable, the quotient of the factor, the one in
the one, the one in the other, and the one in both. Fast,
too, like something you might pass by and sight toward
the second time around. A vernacular present interposed
within a second space, all pointing toward what is
problematical in the one and absent in the other.
"May I contradict myself?" Yes, you did. "What?"


26

I, myself, here, one, single, have come to the end of
it, where there is nothing left to posture out, where simple
statements collapse beneath the weight of silence and the
widening pace of the familiar driven out of its close ties to
the grotesque as an empty repetition. The so-called human
beings I am surrounded by, like that, wear masks and clothes
of disdain and horror, commit horror upon themselves in
an attempt do drive themselves out out out, where nothing
gains to nothing else/also and firmly, to have held
my breath forever, beat my heart sys-tolic, emptied
all my own horror out, (is there more or the same) and
let it go. Bump. There is no cause, there is no presence
at the center, all resolves out of waste and pity toward
our static core of disaster, paralysis and vulgar
stupid hatred and destruction of all that might
relieve us of our agony and disease. enough!

27

I have cried and masturbated in Greece and Turkey
and celebrated the photographic seasons of observation and
rage to no end but the constant and insufferably new
memory (out of the death of the present death and
confessional despair, in movement against the wishes of my
Body, Spirit, Soul, Mind, Feeling Sensation, Motions, Energies.
And the opening has left me stranded in the woods in
my cavernous plywood house, digging at the earth with
a shovel, no nostalgia, no pity, no disease of knowing,
nothing but looking at the ease and clamor of the
horror, perpetual seasons of disregard, left with
a poetic of information, surrounded with the secrets
of ten thousand million insect confrontations, Apocalyptic
essence of thunderbolt superstition: dulled cow eyes,
the rough and empty edge of telling the truth and
having no response but fear and tingling.

28

Out of what comic disaster of empty effects, ecstatic
commingling of friendships, tenuous and crusty, at least,
here, me, two-thirds of an inch thick. To no purpose,
no relief, to save yourself, out of frightened leaping into
voidless voids, bursting through simplicity to sensation,
all words, images, honesties, frauds. Where the specific
and known quantity of the particular locale, out of
recognition first of self and its freedom & goodness
that what is immediate to us is disaster. Settled like
new clothes. Generative gasps and personal insight.
Causes known and spelled out, programs, acts, collections,
the specific driven out of all disorder and causation
into the perfect and futile literal, to danger, to fear
to initiation, to death, to all the rest. and
How? and the following, the last gasp of hope eluded.

29

Whining complaints, mad visionary panic leap grasps,
drug-static hallucinogenic mind paralytic end-stopped
poses, cynical diatribe Brave standing joke-fear laughter,
absolute earth god penetrative feminine suck vision of
release. Familiarity of devouring ouroboric escape fantasy
limit-of-consciousness/penetration of actual/real/authentic
moon-stammer. Poetic calculation against prisoner
dream fact of culture ship disaster ego splinter grope.
The end, the dominion, the flash and splatter, the
total snip & clank of flying stones and idiot orgasmic
intellectual systematized collectivized hope grin-drool.
The Gross and delicate extrications of the few & the
many. The condition, fact, cause, memory, explosion
terminal pleasure, and no rest, no relief, nowhere,
nothing but cause.

30

What are we to do?, one conceives, in perpetual
failure, how move, how bind, how slip, from whom
depend, to where drive & push, to what repeat, out
of this to where? Silence. The continuum of silence,
to attune ourselves to benign ignorance and futility,
to accept the grace and ease of dominance, to have
fewer and better, to repair, to go on in, to lie
down, to act it out, to fulfill, to preserve, to extend
to pause, shatter, neglect, perpetuate, elongate
define, destroy, to whom depend, out of what love
descend, toward what pleasure transmute, from
this divine to that divine, "from zero to zero".
in what spirit, what obstinacy and resistance, move,
toward what and out of that necessity why

31

For whom descend, for what love and child open
empty rooms, from what hope of the new and perpetual
fantasy derive what act or course and set in what need
or cause to believe or create or generate, if it
if it comes around to failure of the whole, and if
the paranoid source of private life descends into repetition,
from what faith or cause derive the private into serenity
and silence and retirement if the whole is to collapse.
To what alien planet flee besides the one & same
the familiar; who ignore but them? Who exclude
but them? Who calculate (contra) against but
them, to expose the model, to turn the tactic out,
but back, how cause cause but out of ease &
hope; the apocalypse and song.

32

to cross, to maintain, to make sarcophagi, time
capsules, to erase, to loose upon "the world" for
what blankness, how transfer, what to pack and
save, who to leave and who to take, how (who
to educate and who to fail, out of that neurotic
death fact acted upon us, to relieve what guilt,
for what future but time, to whom descend, to
what rite pertain, to whose nostalgia attend,
to what silence release, to where as specific to
ask, how to obscure and reveal, in this mood
or state I, me, here, get to the unfamiliar
and familiar quotation, strain, catalog, glimpse,
to drop what pose, in what self believe, to whom
depend or love, in what day identify, in what moment live?

33

Which rhetorical recognition to encapsulate toward the
good? how categorize the waste and loss as useless, how
blind myself toward failure without loss of cause, what
stiffness to unbend, which question abandon, what lost
and empty sadness deflate, which celebration embrace,
which doubt and exercise delude, where go, how, when,
to whom speak, at whom look, with whom respond,
which "other" transcend, how, which personal self deride,
what act enlarge, with which children exaggerate,
which primitive accept? For what reason or doubt
deny which face or cause? In which spirit accept,
How recognize the true, which cynicism to apply,
what literary bondage accept, what role deny,
which?

34

Is the one in the other true? Is truth the quality of
life to engender act, is consciousness a higher cause of
illusion, has the limit of information expanded to its
furthest? Is one then cold and limp and obstinate,
does cause penetrate? Is faith an informant? Is doubt-and-
reason categorically similar, do accumulations drown?
Has the new face of the child, does one return to
anything, ever; is there time or space for life, have
I lived, ever; stupid season of disregard, impatience and
vanity; is the down and the up a sequence or a
fact or a temporal focus, a state of enlightenment,
a skipped term, a dead exercise, a doubtful
journey, a formalist transfer of energy?

35

What retrieve, which past isolate, what memory
expand, which image distend and why, to which
inclination give in and how? To whom speak, even,
and how much; whom distrust, which paranoia
devise, which illusion grasp? Does the new delude?
Is the new a trap? Do the lovers combine, is the
child of self born? Does life follow death? At the
furthest end of illumination and transfer are we not still blinded
by chance cause? Which questions are important, which
distinctions allow growth, what strangulation is essential?
In what dominion does the left and the right literalize; to
where descend, to what depend, from where elapse, to
what favor subscribe, in which essence know
what for, to what use or perpetuation of love define?

36

Flux time generate warp, force tool, edge growth list
emptiness and shield, noon to term,
a birdshell, this and this, the doom of process,
to drive it up as bread or nose,
to foot or trial, to sacrifice or be or die or have, to plant to
hold to be to honor to name to expand to ease to lie sleep
dust worm cocoon, shape form engage
know, to display to be eager, stopped and
known, command literal, the authoritative,
blurted out, stopped and opened.
What city or tree or gaseous vapor of definition what and to
whom. As response or calm, the water or wave have
or hold or know or be as one & person as deed
or fact as the drift or consequence or
blow or dream, what read or beat? The isolation of response, the
mode of transfer, a detail of the whole, to gain momentum, to
grease the rails, to shift zones, leap across, in this fire, these wet
noses, this act, this strain of attenuation, that and named to
get or send to ease and the gain of new information, to make
the whole ascend, to ride without, to slip or gauge or extend, the
mark or gloss as told, spent, engaged, the word as word, to
heave it make or move, to shout, to grip to come on, to get.

37

Devised, shown, as a lesson.
Up the stairs, she did not answer. This.
She waits at home, she holds & soothes, again,
and sings, the book, office,
or door, as psychic gain, a shift; to say more,
to mediate, to verbalize.
The paper, the focus, driven & clutched or scolded.
A deeper sign, the boundary of the skin,
an experience, a total, a new moon, a white
chair a black chair, a doomed event, a new movie. The rock, water
fair hands a clock, these as details, known as windows; I have
these pictures, the trick won't work, I was there already, a
specific presence, more words, heavy air, the trees speaking,
rehearsed acts, special tones, easy others, borrowing like dirt.
The rocks piled upstream. Responding singing, growth and
zooming a crest, waving at the road, her clocks, the road,
over the hiss, specific psychic entity, I do and sing/to
move in both directions, have effect, to heal,
to sleep, to exterminate.
Where pain, what death or skill or song.

38

Specific residual effect, the personal adjective, to grey-in, as
memory, his achievement, not mine and as each goes, to material
names, and shows, has his release in specific causes, to shelter, as
a friend, the old values known, I said,
that term & cause of speech, to accumulate &
connect, to fill out, having said or done, specific
visual re-experiencing, that wisdom, or a cigarette, causes flow,
her song, too, as a picture, material witness, belief and song,
the actual work must be done, one begins, Start! and has a
direction of flow, that all at once, or over the bridge, to move
one's self, to drive the car, me as one & being, there to love, as
inclusion, as text, as food for the dogs. Through the woods,
warped signaling, as fires and trees coagulate in work, obscure
definitions, drunk in his chair, had his guilt & inherited
hers, they are all bad fathers, or every mood of crisis,
"red fucking firetruck of the heart".

39

As long as it takes to do, and empty spaces, too, heavy with
the weight of it, responsible acts, specific content, or slowly worked
out, there, on the surface of it, moved or made known,
the quality of the voice & observation, that certain preoccupations
are shared, & that movement from one mode
to another, as necessary, engenders the
local condition of each into conjunction & requires total revision as
acceptance and loss redefine the direction of travel,
to turn down, to deny or reject to elapse out of
certain causes into the freshness &
blindness of others, as the readiness to accept a method,
nausea of terror, that information
about death, there, on the shore, the whole thing, a
fire from one match or two, to see bicycles, bricks, leaves, or
sound's mode, the specific act, here, doing and lying a detail,
as I mean something by what I am doing and how I am
doing it, and how we all do these things together, with
that in mind to reevaluate defeat & boredom. To let go.

40

As cause as cause. Has repetition at its center, and the
cold calculated fact, imprisoned in the house, or the door gone, the
food rotting & wasted, the children dead or lost, door open,
strangers from the visual necessity, or presumptions about
the woods, my own reactions blurred by combination, that I
am finding something out in the course of it, heavy air, the
moon sinking through grey & wispy clouds, automatic doors, the
timeliness of this all, as new & modern, as old & modern, as
primitive and modern, as bullshit & modern. To gasp, to
bleed internally, and neatness, over the wall, standing on
chairs, relapses of distaste, no, I don't want to, or the
futility of speech & judgments or saying & doing, or
artistic intentions, or living for others (priestly functions)
but, there, to cause there, some alteration; that good is.
Cause enough.

41

Levels of persuasion: inert, domain, what passes
for intelligence is contact,
"the idiom of the news is personal", having paced out beyond,
but the awkward, or phases of knowing silence,
the total entry, of command, at least, heavy evenings,
when ice cracked & boomed, well it doesn't feel the
same, and on, to a good dinner, or lapses of
taste & judgment, right like that, his ears flapped a
little, seemed to grow, or going out through
the last of it, having been nowhere to begin with,
or having said too much, getting caught there
in the moonlight, cars parked all around me,
lost in the dark. Walking across a vaporous field,
throwing oranges at them, his chest like turned
knobs, on a lathe, sequential differentiations
of attention or sequence, that
each one does for himself and has his causes set out,
laid out, and later, (right?) later has
the specific cause or intention done along, made
out, obscure as they are, or "well turned":
turned & dragged, that such personal gestures
would exhaust (me), in the midst of precision,
is there, to bring it up, out of such long practices
(all of these white rectangles, thin,
piled up in the midst of it.
That I would do as you told me to,
there, going on the river, to speak of it literally, no words no where,
but in what one does, acts, value, there, doing, split out.

42

Final sequences of taste and character, or sighing in darkness, that
the new statement would be more than an implication but an advance.
So I expect some reply here.
How many times (there) (as a catalog, wet,
the door opening, as against quotation, how the field delimits the
door opening, or communicates to others.
If I read this later, the on-top
blue, & listening, recollection, his own special lathe,
of signal devices. of course, this.
But this is that, how one went over it,
later, to see see what happens,
though I know already,
maybe one reading or at best
two, like olfactory exhaustion, a fortunate release, that it is better
said elsewhere, some left, to spin out, dust, the wind, the weeds,
but our landscape, and the terms split-out, whatever. Doors &
houses, ok, his river-like voice & mood, to say so little, to put
myself across, & back & forth, to prove that, at least the
most difficult thing I could think of doing, which turns out
to become the reverse side of risk, but how old were they, to
see whether it is there at all. I'll bring the book.

43

Precise, how it begins each time, garbled, arranges, & peaks
but is all a matter of action & reflection, though where it becomes
difficult or absent is another matter.
Where did they come out? Then?
Who did they think they were & what retreats seem
to become so necessary.
But such letters as become meant, are they sure? I see them too
often or it's the constancy of observation;
squares of cardboard. And
his back turned to me, the voice, or noise, & children, what from?
That easy at least; the small, almost toy-like library, & filling
in the papers, this is as pure an example as I can manage right
here, right now, whether continuous or not, & split up like that
as an indication of attention, and written out, spelled out,
absolutely as the light fixtures, but beyond it all, only some more,
and getting it straight, no vernacular, the line, that is, a knife,
or peeling oranges, the jar slipped off the shelf and broke
the edge, a small piece, off the bowl, what do you say to that?

44

Common misconceptions of purpose arise out of pace equations, as
cultural ballast, to drive the familiar out, and his open
character, but in method,
it would require work, at least, to make it known, that
the doing, in the doing, there is "Collection?,
and not old newspapers,
so how the figure (as man is sometimes called)
arises (out of) where I am,
in the old, in the new, in transit. Surely. & looking
sideways, I can say anything at all. A mark or spot get them
together side by side to relate to each other. The first time I
tried it, on a visit, I was shocked to see him there, so far
from where I'd known him before, it actually gave the release
its cause, or is that a rule for play? He says it quickly, but the
variations of theme are less than outlines, out of the old, and
what he means (though he came (without his wife)
all the way from California
(at least two light years away. More than that.

45

But I think clarity would also arise out of the phenomenal. You're
closer than that than I am, but what the age of it, now, a few
years, surely, though I recall out of somewhere,
certain intensities of engagement which
were absolutely startling, the simplicity of it,
such a disaster, where it began to realize,
or focus, at some early points, of close looking, of
anger & wonder, shut the door, leaned back against it & said some-
thing dramatic, which was the irony, though his (shift) fascination
for mushrooms is obscure, means I have to get clearer in spite of
having no faith in the method here, I know it's the long way round;
but then where are we, to require that. Since I think I'm on
a profitable (There!) track. Get the book, as the candles
flicker out, and slightly uncomfortable, almost seasick (I recall
that trip,) making it here & here, the use of this clarity.

46

Or at least as use would be, initial to it, to get an
image down, there is one statement to be made here,
about which we will say nothing;
can’t; says here what we know as taboo or
"the unspeakable thing" is true enough, where it becomes literal
is the error; no error! The rich man rides his horse, or
persists. No, there are errors,
but where they ease out some specific
information, it would say that we are all practicing; just then,
I turned away, though what is bypassed there, in those shifts
is a specific clause. No dominion but the senses, as one
attends to the close shifts, & here, where it alternates, the
effect of the actual mix is unpredictable. Free-mode, and its
extensions: a tactic, what one comes around to. Such a holiday.
That was, and the wind outside, sometimes, at least as strong
as that, perhaps, only to remind me where I am, inside. You
should, but, won't, and that indicates something. Practice.

47

Unfair not to make a clear mention of it somewhere, about
dispersal, the clause of tension, about scattered tonalities, though
simple alternation is what we're used to, is only interspersal, where
a more logical mode, in some way of looking at it, assumes some
activity here, of assembly (commonly: Participation).
I could be more specific, what one usually says (afterwards)
& indicates the inability to do so. Even gestures are incomplete,
to show the tempo or the quality of the gesture as against
its context as a force, or makes no sense at all, is only something
which seems to be taking place though (by his detachment) actually is not.
What's happening then, there, in that, is the vernacular, which only means that
it needs translation. Toute faite. And what I meant here
was exposure, the photograph again, since, for me, it has become,
due to compression, entirely superficial. Now. Your reply. . .

48

Consecutive response at multi-leveled activity of cautious
engagement, not out of hesitation entirely, but a necessity of
observation, & gets around, again to qualities of misinterpretation.
Though they never leave (he did, said he wouldn't, they never do.)
I'll see about that; some with their heads shaved, benign, never
utter a word. Unthinkable, yeah? No. And out beyond, where
hesitation occurs, we said that the other day, we don't
understand its actual motive. But that displaces effect &
response from act. And what moves us, moves us, has its
cause in the relations of effect. It is from effect to effect or
from cause to cause, all out of likes, & the contrary has to be
sought, there, specifically to balance those likes against
(contra) (with) the drift of the specific, the one, the
cause, the organism itself. Where? Invisibly, cautiously.

49

Balance and turn, there are no levers.
As a formula, working backwards,
at least, if one is on the way, he would shift off from it, to hit in on
what is going on, which movement clarifies the whole thing; as a
reduction of possibility or sensation, it dignifies the quest with
some kind of activity, and all the residues of behavior derive
from the pool, the reservoir, which, by that very same
activity and desire, one has built out of what impulse was
initial to the thing anyway: Any derision is deserved. but the
matter is still open, and opening further than anyone could
guess, I think, that All these exigencies should be observed
& honored simultaneously & instantaneously. Beyond the
mundane historicism of gesture, of calculation & fancy. The
opening is rigid, the mountains move back & forth & sometimes
crash together. It is up to him to dash through.
And of course he does, he did already. We know that.

Arlee, Montana 1972

Thomas Lowe Taylor -- EASEL PLENI

By Jack Goff

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


This is how he eased her down the lines of time. Thrust throat forward into the seeming thrush, was told or carved beyond these these allowances you'd made for error, or the streams of her eyes wilding into latent movement. Twitching all the time, or letting a small gasp enter the atmosphere, it was all the same, there at the foot of the bed, his eyes slightly above the level of the mattress; his eye was on her sparrow, that's for sure, and the swaying of her feet from side to side indicated that something was indeed going on there where her legs joined in the middle of her body, where her hand fluttered meaningfully between the gasps of pleasure.

She knew he was there and it fed the scent of the moment, and whether forgiven or otherwise vindicated, it was the narcotic flush of sensation which lingered through memory like a chase scene in a movie, cars crashing left and right, spinning up and over each other in momentary collisions of accident and intent. Later recalled by her feet framing the exposure of the contact, the mass of her breasts erected at the end of the scene, face closed and turned to the left. The mass of the muse injected by the trance of the beloved, the scene seen in the minor of the tempos themselves, nor what remembered not by what smelled of patchouli and the odor of her clothing mixed into the bedthings, it was the unspoken alliance which leveled the hour into its own constituent pieces, left, right, then around the corner and in deep went the middle finger of the left hand. And gasped finally a scream or moan not so much of delight or release but of despair and solitude, not that she was alone......

Years later, I finally see you seated in front of me in a straight backed chair, wearing my tee shirt, your green pants gathered around your ankles, and your knees spread apart so I can see the flower of your musk opening and closing like a flesh-colored iris, or a smooth oyster on the shell of light your hand makes when you stroke yourself one way at a time, our eyes locked in the compassion of release which says all willing hours were committed to this registration and the songs made one at a time you come again into the light of the moment not without your own longing or perfume hard upon your nostrils you come again to sing to me the name of the day you arrived and sounded what songs remained the same as love's acts remit to higher pleasures shared one at a time, into the reason .

That would be the pulse inside my hand which leaves you slippery in my palm to hold it tight against you would be the air's arc which sounds its triumph like a wet motorcycle rooming through the darkness like a magic wand again entering you easily and repeatedly. Not no song to leave around the house, but a private sensation you'd mark away for rainy days in motel rooms in other towns along the side of the road where you left the leaves piling in the parking lot where strange cars went and came again what seemed like a long time to be unscathed or unparalleled or another day roofed and calm what prepared the erotic narcotic for its place in the sun your own eye made of this and this, waxing his pole in the shot you'd said "Air again" and went flying out of the room to make her fishes yelp and stream

A tingling about the ears alerts you to the first signs of her name inside, the one who comes to play at the start of morning wakes you up pale pole rising inside your hand her name on the ceiling a spot to mark the day begin and sing again what calls you out to mark the trail or the edge of the boundary stuck on the floor next to the bed where the first signs of the day are heralded light-like founded smooth between her eyes a spot and center gave you first sooning into blue or late salami rusk pounded or slid between the ribs her breasts a slowly bobbing or rolling sensation reminds you, reminds you not so much hidden as excess in retreat, eh? And by your pole you reach the upper limits of sensation once in awhile, yet still, pleasure shared is pleasure doubled, your voice reaching to me through the wire in short, stuttering yelps of measure and stain

Here at the center of the beet's purple, I lick your lips and curl into wanting shares of what we've left behind in lessons retrieved or allowed to ripen on the vine into statements of fact made into action by choice and treasure, the loom of destiny tight in the erotic slow of hand and signs left along the biological highway as lessons for the deranged and other, minor flavors of the day your tongue returns into speech from its vacation in your sighs and spasms under hand. How you flow.

Unappeased, you continue. How plentiful, how generous, how unfathomable and deep your springs bear the fountain of forgiveness to drink from the cup of your thighs in tense and rain, falling upward into the blaze of pure energy makes immortal the flux of memory's stain removed again in liberation comes again to say hello and stay for dinner inside inside your hand again upon my brow my heart my inside game my own pleasure streaming forth would mark a newer sign set just below your navel the chakra of the morning song made season and temple for the glow of the latening rusk made slowhand song you peel away and sail the moon's cloudy wisps trailing into night or morning or the day after or the sign of love upon the waters of your heart rippling further steams the pools of hidden water, the love of the hours moving mood and tempo again and again the same day becomes the one of moment and term and form and the long days retreating into their own destiny ..........