tom taylor - a man, walks

A man, walks, across an immense plain in the bright light of time’s intensity and calm, & through to the mountains at the edge of the scene. The silence is deafening. New hours claim his intentions to song and dance, and fortune’s followers join the scene willingly. As if in turmoil, the cloudy air blows down from the mountain, foggy and presumed. Following from all that pictorial description, the metaphor enlarges to global lightening, from one side to the other a semaphore of intentions in differentiation and passionate numerals pasted to his forehead with precision and destiny. The crowds gather in the square by the tower in the silence of unknowing. A poem descends from the ark at bay in the harbor of words and signs. As if, no other. These are the doors opening from the inside, where the table is set and laid with food and drink; festive music pours outside in. Gatherings of this number and kind are found in all the towns and cities of the region, and lizards are hung from the trees with flowers and rhyme. Poems falling from the sky, the arks suspended in the misty sea-fog which hovers a thousand feet above the empty plain. The gathering tides of men and women begin to sing the lament of the passing they inhabit in the closing hours of the sunset, ringed with blues and oranges and reds as it is.
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These are the ropes of plenty and chime, the roofs of bright color and the pools of lime are lain aside for the barrels of wine and the wheels of cheese rolled into the plaza by children with donkeys who also sing a sad lament for the end of their waiting for sunset here at the edge of the plain at the foot of the mountains which themselves are covered with the furry plantations of huge trees seen from the vantage point of the ark itself new. The end of the line coincides with the song as another vast dark silence covers the land loading the trucks at the edge of the plaza with the white-clothed peasants and children. No more the empty flowers fall into hypnosis and frenzy, no matter to these empty mists. Here is the road into the mountains with conflicting signs posted on the dead trees. Alight, the priests and nuns enter and gather the remaining wine and cheese into baskets and bowls to carry into the sanctuary where everyone has gathered for a last supper growing from the walls with tables and chairs and a light forgiveness drawn from the paper on the floor with pencils and pens and bare hands dipped in the black ink of the chalice by the door. The buses are loaded by the back door for the last refugees to board and flee to another distant flat plain at the edge of another steep mountain range which is the wave form of the landscape retiring from vision and calm into a vague distance again. At the top of the black tower, the dancing singing figure of the chanter aligns and signs from his hammock and his knife and his fork and his empty wooden bowl at the window.
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These are the stories of the Recluse who occupies the corner of his large room and taps on the tabletop daily without distance or journey but the open season of light and dark, these are the reports left on the bent nail on the wall by the doorway into the back yard by the canal which flows nowhere and carries no life in it but the furry sea-swimming rats in their tiny canoes and rubber raingear as if the destination itself were the journey and calm frontiers of the valley on the other side of the sun. Where there is a purpose to be discovered, it is not revealed but rather glued together on the landscape by love’s perfect hour in the name of the day’s particulars. Love is the glue of the cosmos, first reflected in sensation and the feeling tone of the name of the voice under way, love is the glue which forms the continents and the sentences as well as the spaces between them navigated as they are by the strides and reasons of the creatures seeking and finding.