tom taylor - classic
Your scorn of plenty rings true in the afterthoughts of the period, period; but you’d follow each clue into its hidden corners. “Stupidity is not my strong point. I have seen many persona; I have visited several nations; I have taken part in divers enterprises without liking them; I have eaten nearly every day; I have had to do with women. I now recall several hundred faces, two or three great events, and perhaps the substance of twenty books. I have not retained the best nor the worst of these things. What could stick, did.” (Valery)
Still the apple blesses the tree with its weight, with its wait. Until complete, these arcs of intention follow some kind of unspoken order as if intended, reverse engineering of natural process. So the apple in the tree is the head upon the shoulders of the implicit man the intended one for these meditations, or would you follow them at all? Still the means presents itself on cue and in the wings. On every page a strange odor rises iris-like from the folds of cloth upon which the book rests. Am I the worst or the best of either? No clues in the laundry lying on the bed, it is inert and uncommunicative, like a roller.
Still, you’d paid attention as if someone passed with interest, with a plan or at least a clue about direction or purpose to all this stuff. No such luck, it remains mystery like a virgin. No disguises on the hook by the door, only your camera with the batteries exhausted again. I see her at the bank, behind the counter with a gated window over the granite countertop. She is always glad to see me smiling in response. The sun casts its light over the earth and everything is good though obscure. So, then, the direction of things is best seen in retrospect or in memory… is there no other way to look backwards? These notions of correctness choke us into silence and paralysis while some kind of vast enterprise clamors on into the dark ahead.
Another day you’d calculated all the possibilities there were, notions of fortitude and pleasure piled together unwilling tenants of the forgotten realm where the days don’t end and the sun never sets or rises but is the undiminished stroke by the hand beside you. She follows me through the night, into my dreams. Certain phrases are repeated from our half filled conversations, words rebound into lightswords. Here’s the air around you, blue and green and yellow, as if air were colored at all… only a reminiscent stain on your shirt to remind you of lunch, but that was yesterday. Today it’s only the sun on the ground, the sand recently wet by last night’s rain. Next door a house is rising daily toward completion and then occupancy. Is there no room for this? Where is the door?
I’ve not strain nor pressure for this restoration for this distance. It has come too far along to be ignored, yet movement is missing. You’d call back. That much assumed. You’d be someone to know or love. The spell would grin woodenly, a cigar store Indian on his hand-carved base. I can’t sleep any more. The coffee has done its work and now I’m wired up for the day with nowhere to go. Painting some boards next door, that’s the day I have, white globs on the floor in front of sheets of wood ready to become a ceiling.
The pictures, images, change every few seconds giving an impression of continuity or permission. They are hungry to be seen and counted from the distance they achieve by their placement and frequency, it’s a small drama on the stage of imagination, making connections where none exist, yet pulling an entirety along by means of suggestion or flavor. This is the light brigade. I kept you here there was no other place.
Arks delight their journey’d implications from the history you’d imagined into a book of lights and shadows on the page like photographs collected from all ages and all times in these seasons of moving along into the cold storage of safety and repose again.
Still the apple blesses the tree with its weight, with its wait. Until complete, these arcs of intention follow some kind of unspoken order as if intended, reverse engineering of natural process. So the apple in the tree is the head upon the shoulders of the implicit man the intended one for these meditations, or would you follow them at all? Still the means presents itself on cue and in the wings. On every page a strange odor rises iris-like from the folds of cloth upon which the book rests. Am I the worst or the best of either? No clues in the laundry lying on the bed, it is inert and uncommunicative, like a roller.
Still, you’d paid attention as if someone passed with interest, with a plan or at least a clue about direction or purpose to all this stuff. No such luck, it remains mystery like a virgin. No disguises on the hook by the door, only your camera with the batteries exhausted again. I see her at the bank, behind the counter with a gated window over the granite countertop. She is always glad to see me smiling in response. The sun casts its light over the earth and everything is good though obscure. So, then, the direction of things is best seen in retrospect or in memory… is there no other way to look backwards? These notions of correctness choke us into silence and paralysis while some kind of vast enterprise clamors on into the dark ahead.
Another day you’d calculated all the possibilities there were, notions of fortitude and pleasure piled together unwilling tenants of the forgotten realm where the days don’t end and the sun never sets or rises but is the undiminished stroke by the hand beside you. She follows me through the night, into my dreams. Certain phrases are repeated from our half filled conversations, words rebound into lightswords. Here’s the air around you, blue and green and yellow, as if air were colored at all… only a reminiscent stain on your shirt to remind you of lunch, but that was yesterday. Today it’s only the sun on the ground, the sand recently wet by last night’s rain. Next door a house is rising daily toward completion and then occupancy. Is there no room for this? Where is the door?
I’ve not strain nor pressure for this restoration for this distance. It has come too far along to be ignored, yet movement is missing. You’d call back. That much assumed. You’d be someone to know or love. The spell would grin woodenly, a cigar store Indian on his hand-carved base. I can’t sleep any more. The coffee has done its work and now I’m wired up for the day with nowhere to go. Painting some boards next door, that’s the day I have, white globs on the floor in front of sheets of wood ready to become a ceiling.
The pictures, images, change every few seconds giving an impression of continuity or permission. They are hungry to be seen and counted from the distance they achieve by their placement and frequency, it’s a small drama on the stage of imagination, making connections where none exist, yet pulling an entirety along by means of suggestion or flavor. This is the light brigade. I kept you here there was no other place.
Arks delight their journey’d implications from the history you’d imagined into a book of lights and shadows on the page like photographs collected from all ages and all times in these seasons of moving along into the cold storage of safety and repose again.
posted by jim leftwich at 6:31 PM
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