Tom Taylor - What

What’s first ok. Now more than ever the blue bird sings in the marsh and the meadow land floods the aire with lighte making the new world another place for forgiveness and prayer for the survivors of life itself, for there are none in this world of expediency and common attributes made foremost in their newness. “For my soul engaged in far matters, in towns an hundred fires revived by the barking of dogs…” (Perse/Eliot) here I faltered and then lunged forward into another world I’d not yet seen, borne out of the sheer need to be anywhere at all, I know why they have a glass of wine beside the typing machine, whatever…

This was the new, sort of the new, buttressed pleasure the memento of forgotten ways, waves of the lifetime of regret for fucks that got away, for the missed opportunities caused by your own shyness and total knowledge of that which followed was neither interior nor particle in the hour of markers where the hours spread like woolen penguin dolls stretched out on the floor, no distortion from the norm is any longer permitted, an orthodoxy of permission will rue the day and its repetitious moments in the calendar of days and nights we’ve made together to relax this this in your economical porticoes whereby the escape routes were not even conceived of or you’d been a runaway at 13 years old instead of a farm trout from the university system, but that’s another story, eh?

I’d come to recognize certain kinds of voices either more authentic or less accurate, one way or the other into infinitude and calm, or in the hours of poems praised previously and yet laid aside like unused mortar…Permutando Restorimente, that’s the name of the place where we forgot to claim our identities and are left foundering where the fingers suddenly do not remember how to form the words from the letters in a focal feral of what’s not been done but scored aside where you sing all night a sad song of forgiveness… I come now to the prefix of solace, to the pharmacopia of the eloquent stain…. to the here and now of the empty balustrade (I thanks you for your correction) and yet leave the cornucopia of variety to the allowance and detail of the folks who are let in on the big secret, this now of the uneven bars swirling through the canopy of this and that…

“Solitude! our immoderate partisans boasted of our ways, but our thoughts were already encamped beneath other walls….” (Perse/Eliot) And yet there was no sentry or eloquent stranger in the tunic of the poet to measure the times against the particular days which were left behind in the hours before dawn, we say ‘maybe’ into the megaphone of unreflective doubt plastered all over the front of you like a newspaper headline or like an afterthought to infinity, either way you’re left alone on the spasm of the day where your own persistence is a struggle from one end of the day the beginning of the next, no assurances or insistences anywhere, only the doubt and the ‘agon’ of how it might be, Might Be!… so you’re left alone with that, too, in the forgiven and ecclesiastic of the memento, how you are salient and profound, and how the opening in the wall is neither a gift nor a clue, only a rampant sign of inattention which leaves you wondering in these hours before dawn if there might not really be another path, and if so, why, and so forth into now and its aftermath. That would leave you breathless and unattended in the morning of doubt, but still you hang on like a drowning man and scream for all you’re worth so there won’t be any more left over on the tray to argue over, it’s new again.