tom taylor - rooms the hours open

Rooms. The hours open closely sails begin no term decried autoclave this distinct and allowable presence recalls the visitor at the gates with pillows uninscribed from doubt to pleasure non-entities fill the drawers with their very own incompetence, yet clear the sounds from everyone’s throats and spits us out onto the ground, a lunger rolling in the dust of the sentries at their little telephone booth houses a doctor who marks the days in longer strides you’d made against the tidal flats leaning forward into the wave, the surfer’s realm and formal inclination to be unending or marked by the hands that heal the air bending around the room informal and imprecise yet colored by a destiny you’d only parted the waves between sunrise and upset at the conclusions laid along the floor with the ordinary caution afforded the ruminant stain and single, heals the hours benign presence without recognition nor any frogs upon the flags by the door demon claw as astute years are marked a lot buttressed by their own clammy fortunate which would wound around her neck the splinters of the chase famous photographs living beyond their void in the history of silence ordered your passages closed for the winner made no sign of protest other than the calm removal of his face upon the podium of distress and history like a modern sign unfolded for newer portals let you scheme and dunt at the lower ropes hanging from the sides of the cliff as you’d noted beyond doubt or interest sold the parts their own inflamed destinations made passage another strain on the economy of light which flowed incessantly saying “here it is” before you could even streak across the skies with chairs floating behind a kind of parade in which the last comes first and the end is always close at hand in the semblances and partitions made allowable carried forth rid and denies aspirations are met not made or abandoned to the roller on the wall spewing its white froth onto the thirsty wood which dries too fast and later falls into the disuse and mirror of time’s rude declinations from the heart outward moods your ankles unfamiliar yet obtuse from less formal allowances made of dusk or meat the cutlets on the shade of the dead tree settling the nation into its own funereal progression toward the historical conclusions no nation can avoid in the silence of its own denial and in the face of such monumental lack of simple confidence holds these hours at bay in the finality of the moment each single unity a portion under control from the outsiders as they line up in the morning for more and more of your blood sucking parasites no less deserving than the fools they replace in the endless daisy chain of incompetent peddlers beggars and thieves who cannot any longer perform their assigned tasks yet monitor your breath rate from a distance of five thousand miles in the air an elevator to nothingness designed by the same folks who brought you a bird’s eye view of a lump rolling into Jupiter in the last days of the planet’s history you’d thought saturn’s rings were clay or fodder yet they implode as well onto the dustbin of mystery no allocated reasons given nor described merely a fate to which you’d hardly been a part and parcel looms the day’s allowances in bags of weeds and other offal remitted into the stain and blame of the compactor at the end of the road where you wait with the others for your turn to turn in your garbage for another week of saving and using and repackaging and reminding that the days are passing one by one you make the same rituals in order to deny the now of the now how it schemes and passes one instant at a time into the ether around the darkness which contains all the moments of all the times and seasons of history and memory that somehow slipped away and went into this allowable present for action and purposes of memory functioning like a room or like another sign in the skies that you’d just gone too far to turn back in time against the hours on the doorway claiming one time after another makes the space of these words.