tom taylor - as

As, in one as sum also rising to its ‘same’ or same in one, the reverse is also true. You’d sent the sign of my ignorance of you to the same address from which I’d recently sent my singular comment of unknowing bliss, where the words themselves do not really have it a far reach into the noun of what’s specific hours become more closely wrapped in yellow ox hides. However very many several ears have passed this way not familiar in sum and plenty to the one single same and distance poses these questions less then others might. Here the answers come less readily as the questions predispose them to recall repeat in what is moved among treasures like silence and the feet plodding up the mountain in their own run after destiny. My own voice runs to distant arms and measures up the scene for details the means of which eludes yet masters the lines themselves for their sum and one.
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Back at work on the following day, you hear the drums far off tingling the empty shrine its own names, as, one, sum, the remainder of what is left on the table for the followers, encased as they are by their skin and bones retainers or permissions to allow the readily clothed rumors to run the day ahead no master on the climb, feet falling upwards reverse rain of bodies through the smoke falling falling falling this incessant dive and death to all who showed up for work that day, nor left in the ground for the monuments to cover and stain with time’s allowance forgetting as in sum the day went down badly never to cover the hours from the silence which must have followed, there must have been a silence to remember the rest of your days and nights on the streets with the others glued to the tv as a nostrum or a distant messenger of what had come down against the flag and season of the day you said goodbye. Not enough ever to say or feel the stain of this day among us.
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I saw them coming down again and again never to forget this ancient harvest of blood.
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Still I must, continue in what is perhaps not welcome to the gray-cloud mists outside my window this morning’s plangent airs resume their watch over the gardens and spines of vegetables unattached to the ground, as, some ancient prophecy marked by the sudden. How you’d sent these arrows raining into the earth by no production or memory erased from what had slowed, come as one, a summary of the remains of the day not slid or kept from destiny around the earth’s shrunken globe of light retaining this planet of apes a sudden puff of light in the emptiness of the cosmos where no single eye watches the watcher in his conscious mode, these are my own reasons for being left on the beach with the whales sliding under the waves away from the Indians with machine guns on deck to reap their own ancient destiny and harvest of blood the day before yesterday…. So the anchor yields to its depths the chain of being up the line to a surface reflecting both directions on the light of time’s persistence, the heart beating its rhyme and center in these arcs of electric moments coming again into the day’s reportage forever now.
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Control this lever on the heavens’ vocabulary new from the reach of what is still and not familiar, as, in one sum, the lights are flickering in your global village from the distances marked by soldiers in their anonymity and disdain, individualized no doubt, the bodies counted on the floor for you to decide which course to take from the in and out of this allowance made and totals parsed up the line to some accounting for what was measured by the times themselves marked one second at a time, as in central and domino the effects are nonetheless known to all who come this way to wait and walk at the line again, as.