tom taylor - what takes place
‘what takes place in the depths of one’s being, in the unconscious, can neither be called forth nor prevented by the conscious mind. It is true that if we cannot be influenced ourselves, we cannot influence the outside world’ I Ching, 31.5. yours was the allowance for redemption which seemed to come through your eyes in mine as if these unattended consequences filled the margins with tiny splotches of black and white leaving the document lying by the doorway of your good intentions to do well or better than before, before what, and continue on into the next layer of thought and consequence
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this particular hour, without color, impeded in forward motion by the lead history of emotional significance, not itself bound by any fortunes or allowances in the face of anything now or not. A new balloon emerging from your head, now the sun comes out to play across the deck and floor of your porched desire, ah, the light the form of flow seen from oar to sliming oar, dolts and dunces rue the way and foam internal husks aloud, words uttered in dismay are soon replaced by safer diadems shining from her face and arc the electric display is herded by the dogs and cats of the room upstairs
.
not until now could I finish what I’d started, the girls come out to play house in the woods next to my house, carrying a small table to have tea among the pine needles in the innocence of their time so far unasserted by any cosmos by nature unafforded marks are left on the floor again, noon to the light, reflections on the screen of the machine as if you noticed, nor plume nor star, these links of destiny criss-cross in the mask and dune of let intent, formal shores recall the lines among your faces deep enough for crevasse entry small all-terrain vehicles exploring the wrinkles under your eyes, piton and spike, ropes down the years of your eyes, liner notes on plastic disks filled with music by machinery not by instruments blown or plucked or recorded on bits of plastic film or tape, silenced
.
then I change my mind, don’t jump or fall unintentionally. Larks fill the air with song and flight feathers falling to the ground to be picked up like air-fruit sentences linked among ambitious poets stalking the offices of the presidents of useless schools and dances from moonlit porticoes the phrases themselves taken from stock books so thought need not take place but simply the unaided flow of intuition and commonplace which will clear the air of its lead and zinc and aluminum smoke clogging the lungs with sticky tar the photos from the hospital create fear and trembling for the science under weigh them down like sailors trying to make shore after the boat goes down again and again
.
surly yule fear them presence won by won the collar cleans your hair from the drainpipe leaning associationally among created disturbances, negated anticipations, unexpected lines among the lesser geese floating on the pond where they landed in a flock of thousands at nightfall in the preserve a hundred years ago before they were laundered and folded for dismissal to foreign lands without food or plenty on the marks they’d decided were elemental or perhaps less fortunate than the subscribers to any number of leaning tiles against the doorway spun by the history of remembered phrases as if, as if you’d sought them out one by one in the lessons of their retreat the leaden bows of history and crap among the sines and tangents, despair musks at the end of days times ending we fear the fall of night from the longer days they’d held us down in their useless dream of force to clear the air of all human memory might give the plants a chance, so, here, it’s a rap.
.
this particular hour, without color, impeded in forward motion by the lead history of emotional significance, not itself bound by any fortunes or allowances in the face of anything now or not. A new balloon emerging from your head, now the sun comes out to play across the deck and floor of your porched desire, ah, the light the form of flow seen from oar to sliming oar, dolts and dunces rue the way and foam internal husks aloud, words uttered in dismay are soon replaced by safer diadems shining from her face and arc the electric display is herded by the dogs and cats of the room upstairs
.
not until now could I finish what I’d started, the girls come out to play house in the woods next to my house, carrying a small table to have tea among the pine needles in the innocence of their time so far unasserted by any cosmos by nature unafforded marks are left on the floor again, noon to the light, reflections on the screen of the machine as if you noticed, nor plume nor star, these links of destiny criss-cross in the mask and dune of let intent, formal shores recall the lines among your faces deep enough for crevasse entry small all-terrain vehicles exploring the wrinkles under your eyes, piton and spike, ropes down the years of your eyes, liner notes on plastic disks filled with music by machinery not by instruments blown or plucked or recorded on bits of plastic film or tape, silenced
.
then I change my mind, don’t jump or fall unintentionally. Larks fill the air with song and flight feathers falling to the ground to be picked up like air-fruit sentences linked among ambitious poets stalking the offices of the presidents of useless schools and dances from moonlit porticoes the phrases themselves taken from stock books so thought need not take place but simply the unaided flow of intuition and commonplace which will clear the air of its lead and zinc and aluminum smoke clogging the lungs with sticky tar the photos from the hospital create fear and trembling for the science under weigh them down like sailors trying to make shore after the boat goes down again and again
.
surly yule fear them presence won by won the collar cleans your hair from the drainpipe leaning associationally among created disturbances, negated anticipations, unexpected lines among the lesser geese floating on the pond where they landed in a flock of thousands at nightfall in the preserve a hundred years ago before they were laundered and folded for dismissal to foreign lands without food or plenty on the marks they’d decided were elemental or perhaps less fortunate than the subscribers to any number of leaning tiles against the doorway spun by the history of remembered phrases as if, as if you’d sought them out one by one in the lessons of their retreat the leaden bows of history and crap among the sines and tangents, despair musks at the end of days times ending we fear the fall of night from the longer days they’d held us down in their useless dream of force to clear the air of all human memory might give the plants a chance, so, here, it’s a rap.
posted by jim leftwich at 9:19 PM
