tom taylor - IT

It’s this, another run-of-the-mill abnormal experience, change at the top line, through electrical energy on paths accepted for the run itself. The light changes into day’s opening gray air around the sky, and the elliptical form of the thoughts themselves are indicators that the path is sure and the flow certain in its run along the edges of night. Emotions are seen as well in their uncertain glow of certainty and the illusory nature of their facts borne along in the tidal flats beneath your feet. You reached through sand to rearrange the floating organs inside, my surface tension notwithstanding. Hallow to the scene, sun’s day emergent beyond the ridge to my left, surf slowly rolling up the sand into small pools around the scene. The doors are left open again to enter the air from the inside out and not the other way around, though what is known may not be actual or even suspected by the times at hand. Yes, at hand in the movies of the sky as they protect and nourish the scenery from underneath or from inside. It is still noon somewhere on other planets which revolve around our own. You’d expected my assent no less often than before, or traveled too far to remind the venue of its wilderness, here in the non.
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Later stories remind you of the truth, the you of me… the cities becoming ruins in the sun from some disordered plan not revealed but allowed to spread apart from all that had preceded them in the organization of he centuries along less partisan lines. Here comes the doubt itself in a red car with sirens wailing and lights flashing in the sunrise morning of white and yellow light spreading across the landscape. The ache of being stills you in my heart’s unwinding parameters of emergencies and their particular intensity without definitions or reminders to the opposite side of the freshly-painted rooms we’d moved into only yesterday. A surprise, you might say, from the other side of the coin, all measure and prime-time markers left out or piled by the door. I forget which one turned you around on the pathways of life which might have been spelled out or told what to do. I’ve been tried and feathered from the painted surface on which we lay side by side. Neither hostile nor unflattering, the positions taken were no surprise but actual and persistent in their uniqueness. Insofar as. But what released the energies from their parts and sentences drove along the edge and then turned inland to unload their ‘message’ on the sides of the issue itself, another rim and flattery, another seasoned portion in control.
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Here we pull apart the idea from its seasoning, making a strict allowance impossible, or at least problematical in some disuse or sentient passion. Here the hours melt into their constituent claims for attention or for some other heroic proportions made reverent by some destiny to include you in the discussion after all, only questioning your own relief. The ark is closed now, the new owner dissatisfied with what she saw. Her money on the shelf awaiting deposit and return, deposits liquefied by ancient doorways seething in the wind like love’s anchor on the heart. You said to wait here and so I did, expecting your arrival any day now is not the same as an exception to the rule, a floater on the dusk. And here is the new door opening slowly into the lighted space beyond delays and appraisals notwithstanding nor otherwise unintended consequences left aside. Somehow, all this evades your memorials to your own passion left behind in the dark like unpleasant memories which were left unrecorded more or less abandoned in disuse. An eloquent silence which says little more than ‘hello’ and then leaves town for another escape mechanism from which there is nothing left or sung like popular scenery from the regions of discussion and touching behind the ears of the donkey riding you uphill.