tom taylor - the broken arrows cling

The broken arrows cling. Rubric of fashioned lates, runic by rationed flakes, mirror claims revert no less than seven distances, the ball bounding through the hands of several would-be millionaires, it took less time to fart in the tunnel than to clasp the arks of defeated warriors on the rack of the infrastructure allowances laid up by the cottage with care. It seemed less than that, a moratorium on disease among grapes, hallowed in the evening of these hollow promises by other folks who don’t seem to care one way or the other. The calm indifference was historical in its spread among the outcast tribes of consumerism as if they were merely cattle on the prod and pasture. Overt as it may have been, no news was not forthcoming any way you chose to look at it.
Deck apes paraded among the scuttle fish or were just not permitted. No flash photos permitted either way you chose to look at it. Personally, I opted out of the whole thing as long as there was food in the house. The privatized houseflies tended to charge more for their surfaces than their impoverished counterparts from the pubic selector. Not. By any means, it was a clear sign of the end of things, better to move to Asia and become a cipher in disguise, a molecule on the hand of the holy one, wholly won, whatever. Yours was the anchor watt, hidden in the jungle with the rest of her booty. A lame man can tread under the stars while the rich monk passes his friend in the woods. Like a version.
Ordinarily, the best way around an obstacle is to redefine it. Passages on the wave of knowing. Allowances from the details of the post-ludic age of indifferences. I’d not seen the likes of him before the parade, something I’d read in the style sheet provided by the newspaper in lieu of a vocabulary cheque. I’m not heanded. Particled-out on the wood of the plastic house, papered with old dollars (and wait til they split again) by the hand that feeds them. Taking but a minute. The broken syllables of public discourse of course reminds them of their only chasm in secret desserts made unpalletable. No wood. Eid Haddam cloaked his invisibility without sentries or portables, their graffiti found in the playground waste cans, buried under mounds of hamburger wrappers and old shellfish.
So, the fiction itself is made up. Not a second too soon since the belief systems are all evacuated within the parameters declared private and not subject to fines or reviews by the sharecroppers who mine them (“Mine!”) – an allowable presence which clutters your foolscap inventions with rhyme and scion. Another loop rescinded, a monster bush in its past tense made eloquent by its silence, there’s the sympathy you’d expected from the crash of your beloved expectations. Hope for the worst and avoid disappointment, even the smallest trees in your orchard of bereavement will bear its smallish, bitter fruit, more easily packaged than knot.
The wurst of your livers and dyers, sunken in their 50-gallon drums in the courtyard below, blues and reds and yellows standing out against the misery of the cement corridor. Now you begin to smell the future rinding down on your broken collar, now you stick to your buns and treasons in private acknowledging that nothing will be done, nothing at all. So don’t wait, just pass your stones throughout the circuit of your mystery. Personally, I’d say “Punt!” and hope for a field goal in disguise, an untoward development for the opposition, leaving the editorials for those who still speak the language, leaning forward in expectations of community and compatible blood types prepared by your emergency teams in action enacted slowly across platforms of use and expectation like someone willing to expose the disasters of history on the palm of sand.