tom taylor - another claim

Another claim, then, for inhibition’s resonance from the composition outward in single movements drawn forward by the incipience of the categories themselves. As if no other. Here is the sentient realm of nothingness drawn from silence which itself begets a formal and intrusive truth, that being itself is another occurrence about which one might know little and practice less; it’s in the absence itself that a sensation describes what is non or other. These are the salient dreams run across your face like mice in heat. The clatter in your heart becomes a mesmerizing repeat of tempos and rhymes of times unseen nor furthered. It’s the empty skin that draws you forward filling your own skies with meteors and collections of doubt which invade all but the seen and the known. And so you room along the halls of plenty with your hand outstretched into the gloom to feel for the wall you are about to slam into without hesitation one step after the next.
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Here, you’d halt and reconnoiter the lay of the hand. Nothing indicates repetition or search but you follow the stick, the goad. Plenty in the pasture, you think. It’s still a gray-red day in the skies of your absolution, pity and the document stain your hands with the blood of language, the ruminant strain which allows and disallows as it pleases. And it does. It pleases and stammers and recourses into the fathoms on your fallow lands and seasons, here, where summer falls into the long tides and the brilliant moon just around the bend in the calendar. Now they are leaving the planet in raptures of the rising sign. Motor on, you say, and clear the road ahead for the multitudes to follow. Surely, the flower fulfills its day and withers onto the ground to reinhabit the source of its own illusions, the moment of beauty which is both fleet and sought. My love she lies like silence, so long ago but not forgotten like a dream in reverse, starting when you awaken into the quiet dark room of its begetting, your own, too….
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It’s hard to think otherwise. Surely there’s joy and the glow of magnificence under every leaf, and yet, and yet… here’s the pause of attraction which makes language in the first place, the red tide, nothing returned, glow of faint entities in the distance, cities where once there was plain and drought, yet here the humans spread their waves of inhabitation. You’d crawl into the leafage, claim your spot in the floor, and then you’d drag your crackers and tins of sardines into the circle of light for another feast on Saturday night. Mark these anxious waves and sines on the cotangent of light which steeps ahead into the far distance where the parallel lines finally run into each other, at the rote edge of the spasm in your other hand. The elite motives have run into beauty, the clash of the titans releasing energy from your forehead like a laser beam from ground zero. Objectify. Heed the waving arms and legs their masses running and gesticulating wildly into the non. Eid haddam, you think, and swirl the juices around the glass with a swizzle stick made of light as well, the glass neither half empty nor half full but somewhere in between less and not-enough to even make a measure in the morning.
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Ahh, stop and stay, sing the dream against my heaving chest, against my anxious moon, come between speech and silence with your poems and your photographs hung by the chimney with care…. It’s a slow balloon rising through the mists and colors on the graph which flood your ears with harmony and petition. Here is the avenue of the tall trees and the tall women gliding across the room without moving, near the heat of the eye’s clamor and song, too soon to tell and too late to draw away, the fire claims your heat as if it knew