tom taylor - light precede dark

Light precede dark into this emptiness and silence of now, then retreat to sign against the latent parables foretold in the lives of ancient residues clinging to the stain of being man bears with woman into the gloom to recover the terms of life itself. Some pleasure in the link of being to sign, how we pass the stones piled beside the road to indicate, something, the path or the vine or the dangling ropes cascading down the cliff from the cloud heights. A climate rose from thorn to sky in colors red and blue and green up the pole to the round knob at the top. The roses thorn and gong were muse to the science of the other road along the lake which ended in harmony and recluse anchors on the heart. Apart from the crowds lining the way, there was no indication of any pain or seizure from the cart before the horse guiding the way into unknown territories left and right in the hours between dawn and pity these monuments were declared constitutionally active.
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I’m standing here at the lip of the centuries in their own separate unequal destinies. The universe untended perhaps unintended, a vast conspiracy of unintentional consequences gathering speed in the rush forward toward less clear goals and seasons. You’d ask why. Here in the mountain strain, lutes and peasants fry their anticipations sooner than not. It’s another calm day in the skies outside my window, puffy white-gray overage delights the rampant things apart from any other meanings you might impart to the ledge of the rhyme in time, left alone far too long to be a good thing, but the dark and lonely days are soon to pass as if not mentioned nor remembered by some equanimity or forgiveness. Now is the root and flame of the promised edges cut by the rough shears into a lunacy of delight and memory, as if not mentioned beyond the lark you’d dove into the realm of plenty at the heart’s disclosure and recycle for the later spins and turns on the floor. Here is the line across the sand which was crossed and recrossed so often that it disappeared into cartracks and hummocks of confusion, just there where the surf smoothes it all down to a flat and undistinguished wet plane of intentions, shells and bits of flotsam on the way. Nor spent, nor forwarded into the mail, nor evened out by lesser hands than this.
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oar pressure knots the smaller boats at tide and barren flattened opus to the night, far from newer shrines their moaning mantra a mask against the light revealing less than might bethought from ark to center. You’d throw the liners down the stairs in random fluxis, afforded these luxuries in brown bags piled by the door of the car’s remains at the signing of contracts and the breaking of dues and wills to the opposite side of the line, here’s the specific density of the thicker walls, the floor painted in a swirling hue of fall colors from memory’s dank corridors in the dream world where everything tends to live in the same space at the same time; words fly off the handle like bacon frying in the mist. Now is soon enough to remember where you were going before this detour from the heart’s open lines at youth’s sure-footed dance of the hours and theirs as well, in free associations gathered at the finish line for the photographer and his linkages at the fierce pokes and scrambles for the red flag or the green flag or whatever it was, not a certainty that’s for sure but a reminder at the looser clocks that you’ve been away far too long for memory to clear the air against your shirt and bosom beating off the climate changes forever known among these strangers as another one of them clinging to the hope that might engage your distance and call this separation at its end a new beginning to be the same air recalling flight and fancy from the mountains sprung and lined up along the others you called lovers and strangers on the journey from here to there and back again.