tom taylor - plain hair

Adequate chance defies authority notwithstanding other elements presupposed are not colorful nor particularly despondent in their mists of suggestibility and repose, from their own dimensions cast like strangers standing on the corner of your block with burlap sacks beside them, another sign of the times to come sooner than you’d like is not the scenario we imagined yet the imprecise nature was itself a derision or a cloudy sentence left along the side of the road.

Here’s the deal. You’ve spent the days and nights in blank solitary confinement the human condition of being here at all along the road from where you started out, maybe up the coast, maybe into the mountains where all the trails not taken lead to their infinite choices in memory and precluse. Or is it the other way around? Maybe we’ve been deceived and maybe not, there was surely a willingness to our blind faith. A magnificence of imagery and attention was left along the way like a messenger or platform – either way, it’s the same deal day after day and yet the scars remain unhealed by the passage of anything. It’s a fallow line lain bare or unplowed by the man ahead of you, elephants in a line holding onto each other’s tails and surrounding the globe (if that’s what it is) with the formation of their ranks.

Surely the election will fix all that. The indefinite future will persuade with its elbows spread wide to smack the opposing player in the chops, taking him out of the game for the rest of the quarter…. Here is the undefined result you didn’t imagine but clipped along the dotted line from ankle to ear, making surgery an afterthought on the pages of the age. Decried presence, the name of science. Rotunt and postulary, here’s the deal among the ages defined by passion and recluse, here’s the empty solace filling your cup, it’s the day before and you haven’t done your laundry… the girl at the bank smiles back with a hopeless friendship you don’t know how to respond…. It’s still the day before you spoke with the gods and still they don’t know your lingo or your foolish intent, it’s a calculated risk, one which should rest on the sides of the glass with the fingerprints and lipstick smudges just before the popcorn runs out. You’d smirk. You’d catch the next bus south in reminiscence of the ladder scorned by its tubes and flat spots.

I’m not sure at all how to turn this around, but who’s guessing anyway? The random shots have cleared the air of its smoky and windy absences, like a new potato, but peeled from all intent by the layers you folded forward onto the ground or mountain…. Poles uprised for the teepee structure with the snow all around the ground, it was a short three steps into the frigid waters of the irrigation ditch, a stream they called it…. But why were we there at all? It was no easy matter to find a job or a mate or a place to live or any other of the seven pillars of civilization. The television had not yet arrived from the lower states, so it was nothing but cowboy music on the radio and a big fire in front of the tent. You were an unwilling prisoner of your own passages, and the days stretched out like stories which hadn’t yet been told, full of color and line and lacking only the desperation of the last call for service before the bar closed down for the night. Here were the visiting firemen waiting by the door. Music in the air was fulsome and rotunt. But the hour itself passed on by waving one hand free into the air to say hello again. You moved and slid ahead, holding onto the brass railing as if it were wood or iron or dust.