tom taylor - notes
It slipped on word internal residues were kept from the central concerns not blue and read but an allowance on the nether reach of your own, firm hand. Sure, I conjured your essence in the theater of driving down the road against the tides unbeginning in the outer spoils of daylight and magnificence. Structure perhaps not a portion of composition but the very opposite, somewhere between occasion and occurrence. The latent sprain. The other side of doubt in this arrogance of despair, the search for what was lost in the spam and clutter of the resonant strain, the “resonant strain” as a sub-theme or a detail.
This was the hour you left behind on the porch with the photographs still in the camera’s wide-angled persistence. A musker on the mask, a mother on the flask…. How’d you do in the hereness of now. Another diatribe marked in the margins with a thick black pencil. Rustus occidentalis, a clusterfuck of nonentity proportions as here the day begins in the morning a time to write and writhe. I’d hold my part a part away from you in the morning no hardon slinks the spoken word as if it were a noun or presence. I’d had ‘em, not no norther in his realm but the clarity of allowances in the marker of true.
Slick me down. Hold the air’s willingness as a portion or as a revival. A welcome unconsciousness would at least make the passage of time allowable or at least tolerable. That’s the rub, the open chasm of her sighs and thighs another real undisturbed or left on the ankles of doubt, like a regional map of the heavens with no legend. Ah, the legend of it all, how the figures in memory were more than doubt or essence but the laggard sons of the ancient due. Lates. The musker doon and let unasided in the misery of disuse, harking doughs the lineament of disaster. I’ll die without the inner sign of you. Hears that as a tuneful reminiscence. Not a dinger, not a quail but the spooner in the musk.
This was a single down, rabbits on the field with their tails spunky with lime and doubt; allowed thus, the skinner bean not nostriled yea no answer in ‘is plinny. Thus unspoken unstuck with his feet planted neatly against the wall, just to demonstrate his high kick. Some days I have some hope, others, not. A zinocular zimmerole, a single spam on this stick of strife – latent in its’ residue fulfillment, nor a special hour let on these housings and tempos like a refluxed carbonate wheel-lining made interim and spaced-out beyond the insignificant soarings held plume and serpent by the man at bay.
This stings the ark a newer rheum unimploded, net scoriations a plover in the nets. Not to complain, mind you, but to extend the nature of the conversation itself a more obscure matter than the flavor on the script of chance encounters which were not whom or secret report, nay, the hour is close at hand, when the investigators are checking out the other investigators however silent they may retrieve in their reports to the unknown. This would be the empty time of what you clear asided.
I’d reminded the sentries that we were cleared to pass and no arguments would be permitted rather than the endless argumentation from the gallery of fools who all suspected that the shore burst or the river passage would not have happened at all without some version of success or arrival on the platform of success and innocence. Better to be the opposite, simple yet unintended by the clarity of the monument signing in the town square rather than the elephant or the dirty donkey stinking up the courtyard without pity or scorn.
I’d said now and then held out for something more than the sunken ruins out there in the dirt, where the quality of the act itself belied the monument of its anonymity…. Here was the open hour of beginning and ending, of life and remonstrance…. Your own.
This was the hour you left behind on the porch with the photographs still in the camera’s wide-angled persistence. A musker on the mask, a mother on the flask…. How’d you do in the hereness of now. Another diatribe marked in the margins with a thick black pencil. Rustus occidentalis, a clusterfuck of nonentity proportions as here the day begins in the morning a time to write and writhe. I’d hold my part a part away from you in the morning no hardon slinks the spoken word as if it were a noun or presence. I’d had ‘em, not no norther in his realm but the clarity of allowances in the marker of true.
Slick me down. Hold the air’s willingness as a portion or as a revival. A welcome unconsciousness would at least make the passage of time allowable or at least tolerable. That’s the rub, the open chasm of her sighs and thighs another real undisturbed or left on the ankles of doubt, like a regional map of the heavens with no legend. Ah, the legend of it all, how the figures in memory were more than doubt or essence but the laggard sons of the ancient due. Lates. The musker doon and let unasided in the misery of disuse, harking doughs the lineament of disaster. I’ll die without the inner sign of you. Hears that as a tuneful reminiscence. Not a dinger, not a quail but the spooner in the musk.
This was a single down, rabbits on the field with their tails spunky with lime and doubt; allowed thus, the skinner bean not nostriled yea no answer in ‘is plinny. Thus unspoken unstuck with his feet planted neatly against the wall, just to demonstrate his high kick. Some days I have some hope, others, not. A zinocular zimmerole, a single spam on this stick of strife – latent in its’ residue fulfillment, nor a special hour let on these housings and tempos like a refluxed carbonate wheel-lining made interim and spaced-out beyond the insignificant soarings held plume and serpent by the man at bay.
This stings the ark a newer rheum unimploded, net scoriations a plover in the nets. Not to complain, mind you, but to extend the nature of the conversation itself a more obscure matter than the flavor on the script of chance encounters which were not whom or secret report, nay, the hour is close at hand, when the investigators are checking out the other investigators however silent they may retrieve in their reports to the unknown. This would be the empty time of what you clear asided.
I’d reminded the sentries that we were cleared to pass and no arguments would be permitted rather than the endless argumentation from the gallery of fools who all suspected that the shore burst or the river passage would not have happened at all without some version of success or arrival on the platform of success and innocence. Better to be the opposite, simple yet unintended by the clarity of the monument signing in the town square rather than the elephant or the dirty donkey stinking up the courtyard without pity or scorn.
I’d said now and then held out for something more than the sunken ruins out there in the dirt, where the quality of the act itself belied the monument of its anonymity…. Here was the open hour of beginning and ending, of life and remonstrance…. Your own.
posted by jim leftwich at 6:57 PM
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