tom taylor - todays notes
"Todays notes are yesterday's looms." Crash course in living, don’t crash at all but seal the yonder skies their blue and yellow orange-red sunset with dogs running on the beach surf signs piling into the sandy margin again and again. This repetition soothes the heart and clears the air around my head against all seasons left along the way like something remembered from long ago. The slow days return with fall’s glamour and song, birds are settling in for their great haul to the southern regions of the planet in disguise and remote destinies among their gathering tribes to the northern acres abandoned to the snow which will come soon enough to be a declaration of winter. Each day new in the tribes of cloud and rhyme coming through the blue-sky air clean and simple. We’ve crossed this line together in the chance of a return on your testament and line. This is the new air again.
.
nothing persists from this household and terminal, from this last line of defense against the age, here on the edge of the continent where the toothless fairies burrow under your pillow at night, leaving dimes and quarters from the old days waning into forgetfulness. I’d been there too many time to confuse it with something else; I’ve slipped this disk not wanting otherwise, smoke curling out of me forever scheming into the air’s repeated time and reason to be someone else inside my cautious elevations to the lesser parts myself included marks the air against my lungs worn out by disgust and fathom, ants crawling from my mouth, leaving the sinking ship to find another place to hide. I wouldn’t say this but you’re inside my leaves and branches held against my sighs like a new season from the moon on out. I’d called for help in the midst of darkness climbing up from these empty years like a venue or a norm, still bent into the wind while my spirit roamed from land to land affording nothing in return but the need to go on into whatever was left.
.
empty habits of death derided my scene and reason, leaving sticky residues inside my body like a rabbit in disguise, jumping from the briar patch to run away into the non. Here was the gentler sign raised from color and sign, a simpler passion filling gloom and throng their own pathways crossed into the lightning storm descending from within. It’s a new hour on the chimes banging hour by hour into the lighted space we all inhabit. I’ll await these habits their denigration and repute on the sliding glass of time. They’d fold or scheme their own agenda from a dead end street, aligned by size and portion into a new dimension on the screen of attention. Or how you’d manner these lines into a basket or another scar on the moon. I’d sail the empty seas their rock and tribute into the sailor placid hold and portion, failed estates in the room of history as yesterday’s looms wind out their cloth and flags to carry the day or night into other regions not yet seen or told. As if, no other, the one designation clears your throat of what’s stuck half way down into my stomach from pronoun disregard. A light day. A fashioned prelude.
.
ere you’d struck the screaming down into the valley below, here the roar of unattended mansions clues the day forward into rockier lays and pinions, peacock sitting on the fence preening and stretching in the afternoon sun. You might remember your name if you attended to the marching bands across the sky, their flags and trumpets and sorrier acts of war penetrated by the spirit inside time which brings us back to knowing who we are in dreams and mansions flooded by the score of the line against the flute of the age, inert to these lackeys at the gates with their feet wrapped in old poems, tender buttons on the line of the air you’d shared me forward into the ark and plinth her flowers blooming now.
.
nothing persists from this household and terminal, from this last line of defense against the age, here on the edge of the continent where the toothless fairies burrow under your pillow at night, leaving dimes and quarters from the old days waning into forgetfulness. I’d been there too many time to confuse it with something else; I’ve slipped this disk not wanting otherwise, smoke curling out of me forever scheming into the air’s repeated time and reason to be someone else inside my cautious elevations to the lesser parts myself included marks the air against my lungs worn out by disgust and fathom, ants crawling from my mouth, leaving the sinking ship to find another place to hide. I wouldn’t say this but you’re inside my leaves and branches held against my sighs like a new season from the moon on out. I’d called for help in the midst of darkness climbing up from these empty years like a venue or a norm, still bent into the wind while my spirit roamed from land to land affording nothing in return but the need to go on into whatever was left.
.
empty habits of death derided my scene and reason, leaving sticky residues inside my body like a rabbit in disguise, jumping from the briar patch to run away into the non. Here was the gentler sign raised from color and sign, a simpler passion filling gloom and throng their own pathways crossed into the lightning storm descending from within. It’s a new hour on the chimes banging hour by hour into the lighted space we all inhabit. I’ll await these habits their denigration and repute on the sliding glass of time. They’d fold or scheme their own agenda from a dead end street, aligned by size and portion into a new dimension on the screen of attention. Or how you’d manner these lines into a basket or another scar on the moon. I’d sail the empty seas their rock and tribute into the sailor placid hold and portion, failed estates in the room of history as yesterday’s looms wind out their cloth and flags to carry the day or night into other regions not yet seen or told. As if, no other, the one designation clears your throat of what’s stuck half way down into my stomach from pronoun disregard. A light day. A fashioned prelude.
.
ere you’d struck the screaming down into the valley below, here the roar of unattended mansions clues the day forward into rockier lays and pinions, peacock sitting on the fence preening and stretching in the afternoon sun. You might remember your name if you attended to the marching bands across the sky, their flags and trumpets and sorrier acts of war penetrated by the spirit inside time which brings us back to knowing who we are in dreams and mansions flooded by the score of the line against the flute of the age, inert to these lackeys at the gates with their feet wrapped in old poems, tender buttons on the line of the air you’d shared me forward into the ark and plinth her flowers blooming now.
posted by jim leftwich at 10:36 AM
<< Home