tom taylor - the less fortunate survive

The less fortunate survive, unannounced to the skies, nor anyone’s intimations of immortality from these echoes of the passed and the further. You’d called me in and out of the anchor on the heat of battle, a sled or a passion in disguise. Nor plunged nor sailed beyond the bay into the steaming seas of light and dark. This was the day you started over on the road of whatever, oblivion at the edges of the sky, blue sliding into true black. I’ve celebrated the moment of discovery in myself far too often to do otherwise, and while the calmer seasons arrive like destiny, I’m still surprised at the length and breadth of my own deceit. I’ll lie to anyone, especially to myself, and in the distances afforded by luxury as well as defeat, I’d call your name to the ceiling time after time, the lessons of the other wall in a decision from the hours and hours spent in possession and ruin.
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here’s a sentence on humanity. Skill the loser down the trail in wanton self congratulate for the hours on the floor still left for decision and mastery. Hold the anchor down with sheer will. Clue the distant horizons of their own destinations. Your hackers blended in without pity or scene, it’s the usual drivel in the morning today. A mark laid upon the sand; colors erupting in these mists of nothing. Word play to work scar, she dances in my hands like a tiny flower; amassed proportions only rule the day. It’s aphorisms anon in the cool gray of the end of everything. Folks lined up for a handful of rice, that’s all you get today, gotta eat it raw. Uncooked or unleavened, it’s the synagogue on the hill which spurs everyone into battle, flags unfurled, lasers pointing into the scene. Now is the fortunate hour, here at the non, in full regalia fronted at the gates to the city. Norse. The putative decision makers are gathered in the square, their black suits dusty with the signs of battle. They’ve left the scene too early and the cameras grind to a halt.
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what’s to cry? The flagrant dedications have been signed off and mailed into the lesser alcoves of their unremittant spoke and wheel. Futures mortgaged to the unspoken need of the few against the many, letting them eat cake, as the saying went so long ago. She left her head in the basket while the crowd cheered in amazement at the salient end of all that was promised when nothing was delivered. Speeding along the trails of doubt and plenty, here’s the open door into the other side of the room where the furniture bleeds and spells some lessons on the floor. It’s a pool of light, spread out against the noises of the battles in the street which will not go away ever. Soon it will be our turn to weep at the unknowing meaning of the shot in the dark which killed the loon and the pony. I’d leave but where? Here or not, it’s all the same determination which focuses heat on the flame of light at fires incantations and the silence of the rams. No matter in the music. It’s a new balloon which carries the weather upwards into the gloom of the polluted skies. Still a heart beats inside your fathoms, claiming you as if you were not home but shelled onto the seasons of light which clean your lungs clumsily at the ready for someone new or not.
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I’m calm in this destiny. No showers of smoking fish clear the scene like hailstones a mile wide and dripping with excesses. After the rain fell, they said it smelled like fish everywhere in the middle of Oklahoma. Go figure. The rain falls and the grass grows into a lawn and marker on the skies. Too soon the days fall ahead and time grows shorter like a version of the other way to live, all porched out and left in the rain to grow smooth from what’s left on the plate for the others to survive in their lesions and spring. This is the time you went away and came back new and startled like news in the air again.