tom taylor - TODAY
Today, leaves falling through time, even through gravity itself, another force to be reckoned with or against, against time the leaves will not fall but rise into their new estate inside time itself reckoned or beckoned. The contradictions themselves cancel out and make a space on the table for a newer guest at the feast of the centuries, food prepared with some grace for the times that follow on the heels of what preceded…. Flora Sauna ruled the day, the land sinking to the right in its fall from space into time’s successions and failures. These are the terminal lights ringing in the town square from time removed but lessoned from what proceeds from the purse into the saner of those who remain tied to their posts. It’s all a matter of favor, not allegiance or any lesser form of loyalty… it’s a matter of what you think you’re owed in the residues of the unknown which clog your brainstem with eons of flight and fancy. You came to me in the silence of my calling out. It was another significant event in the face of whatever we inhabited from the earlier classes we met together and then captured a second or two from the scheduled tasks we reasoned outside the lines and made abstract lesions on the sands of thyme and rosemary.
.
The lady in the dunes walks across the beach strewn as it is with the detritus of life, bones, beads, bodies, all bode to the signs that lie there in the sun bleaching them of their color and their residues of flesh and energy. The dogs chew unspeakable things as if they were food and perhaps they are, left from their definitions into a newer form of use, like the rest of us, filing into the room without question or answer but driven only by the blind obedience of the sheep and the lemming rushing toward the cliff in an energy of completion, driven toward the buffalo jump by the Indians on their horses running alongside the monster animals collecting in a heap at the bottom, a killing ground for humanity’s lessons on the floor of the cave, on the wall of the cavern smeared paint in the form of words and songs driven from their pit and sum. “Not so bad” you think to your self who does not answer but leaves you alone along the trail and one hand waving free….
.
You came in the wilderness and darkness at the end of gravity’s fall with leaves intended words and signs were crept along the flailing line at the end of the screen. You came again to say hello and let me in on the big secret. We came to dance on the lines across the floor which call the path another room of unintended masks and pleasures. The ropes have been cut, the tree is falling, the wind is blowing through the air around your years marking the day as if by paint and stone. Into the towers we’re blinded by the tightness around the scars of life’s impediments, lonelier hours have come between the other minutes we marked silence as a mere intrusion on our running commentary on the light around the corner. Here is the moment we await in our silence, the presence of the sign and the hour, a lighted space which claims our inner form from where it hides in the dark of unremitted days and nights…. Tennis matched the voices on the screen with intentions and reputations on the line between in and out. He smiled along the side of the table, she kept the hours from repeating. You sighed against me like a melon or a flask. These hours were marked by the hand that gave them sign and tempo, alert and fortunate in the pacific of their anabasis to be the moon and throng of any future at all, something more and more uncertain in this failure of the moment, anguished by the silence of the sheep in their pens awaiting the clipper and the knife itself, an allowance for night’s particular silence on the floor of doubt relined by the folks at home in their wallows of repeat.
.
The lady in the dunes walks across the beach strewn as it is with the detritus of life, bones, beads, bodies, all bode to the signs that lie there in the sun bleaching them of their color and their residues of flesh and energy. The dogs chew unspeakable things as if they were food and perhaps they are, left from their definitions into a newer form of use, like the rest of us, filing into the room without question or answer but driven only by the blind obedience of the sheep and the lemming rushing toward the cliff in an energy of completion, driven toward the buffalo jump by the Indians on their horses running alongside the monster animals collecting in a heap at the bottom, a killing ground for humanity’s lessons on the floor of the cave, on the wall of the cavern smeared paint in the form of words and songs driven from their pit and sum. “Not so bad” you think to your self who does not answer but leaves you alone along the trail and one hand waving free….
.
You came in the wilderness and darkness at the end of gravity’s fall with leaves intended words and signs were crept along the flailing line at the end of the screen. You came again to say hello and let me in on the big secret. We came to dance on the lines across the floor which call the path another room of unintended masks and pleasures. The ropes have been cut, the tree is falling, the wind is blowing through the air around your years marking the day as if by paint and stone. Into the towers we’re blinded by the tightness around the scars of life’s impediments, lonelier hours have come between the other minutes we marked silence as a mere intrusion on our running commentary on the light around the corner. Here is the moment we await in our silence, the presence of the sign and the hour, a lighted space which claims our inner form from where it hides in the dark of unremitted days and nights…. Tennis matched the voices on the screen with intentions and reputations on the line between in and out. He smiled along the side of the table, she kept the hours from repeating. You sighed against me like a melon or a flask. These hours were marked by the hand that gave them sign and tempo, alert and fortunate in the pacific of their anabasis to be the moon and throng of any future at all, something more and more uncertain in this failure of the moment, anguished by the silence of the sheep in their pens awaiting the clipper and the knife itself, an allowance for night’s particular silence on the floor of doubt relined by the folks at home in their wallows of repeat.
posted by jim leftwich at 8:37 AM
<< Home