tom taylor - now

Now, even your pipe dreams are foreclosed, called in, set out like the thin, new moon sneaking across the clear, starry night sky, an atonement of bridges.. Nor clear machine upended from the apple cart wherever that was noted at the margin, sea’s acute reliance from defined statutes at love’s open menu for the heart’s adventures. Redacted from your attentive calm and statute, I’d not seemed apart nor future on the glow of the centuries. A follows the bee into nest and collar, a post not seeming nor infatuate glow the body’s carts and treasures piled by the door where you’d left them disallowed or perhaps just ignored from the latter point of view. Other marks of punctuation have gathered by the edge of the paragraph, demonstrating with tiny signs and barely audible bull horns spiking the silence at your desk. You came to me in the silence of the bubble, dressed in bright garments from the rack by the closet. They were not intentional but declared an immigrant and held for questioning, just as you were so long ago.
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God without machine shifting responsibility for the universe to sub contractors in dark metal cars with tinted glass careening across the godless landscape in groups of four and five at a time, their sirens hooded to the night. The hammer did its job yet did not free up the gate. It remains locked to entry or otherwise kept from usage by definition and calm. No arrow. The light from your eyes casts shadows on the wall, hand puppets are used to recreate the acts of the night for imaginative eyes. Or perhaps imagined. A form of ripe, pleasant odors more articulate than expected still the ark around you in its particular form of destination or recall. I’m not heanded from lesser gloom yet not included in the exploration of these alien regions in the history of sentences laid out for the feral police snarling at your front porch with their heavy-handed prophecies and warnings. ‘keep ‘em silent’ he whispers onto the sideboard with love’s particular pain a reminder of your existence in the fate of nations left out for the man who comes by for things abandoned and left out by the curb for anyone who might have need of such obsoleted rhythms, a pucker or a glean. No eyes .
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I held myself apart, no other course of action was possible in this open gloom of days and nights where nothing stood still long enough to be counted, all variety was parse and tone in the remains from the attack still smoking on the ground. We’re not ready for this, but we wait for the other other shoe to drop to the floor overhead with a thump. Once I heard a bowling ball rolling down the hallway overhead in our tiny apartment. One bedroom too many. It was already too much for me. I didn’t know what to do. She was not happy nor was I, left beside the hours spent together in a fallow gloom. I never got over it, nor the next one or the one after that, how little I knew of these things, surprised at the slam of it on the floor. The base was there clear to the wall.
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So we see, then, nothing begets nothing yet contains everything in its absence, the law of the non. You’ve heard of such things yet not encountered them before your own naiveté enclosing your heart’s willingness to subside in the fate of nations to, just, not know. It’s a sullen song we hear these days in the fading empire of our deceits allowed as they were by the hand that feeds us one spoonful at a time. The rice sits cooked in the bowl, ready for dinner tonight where the large rabbits lunge across the road in the silent, weeping night, music spilling out of the radio as you drive the continent from one edge to another let in on the big secret by surprise and a forced calm we call the day into question now.