tom taylor

As longer lines permit, contact warriors the mind outward from what’s provided for perusal, for allowance, for the rest of the day you came across my notes and pressures from the inside out was not the same smooth path of the hidden one across the mountains and through the sunlight passageways into the interior of the thought itself where the secrets are revealed and the story lengthened into miter box and shingle siding on the porch now finished the west side of the house itself still a naked government waiting to be enacted on the lines around the room

Your is the message heeded on the side of your hand scratched with broken fingernails into the willing (or not so willing) surface on the face of it another, newer postulate. This is the new surface you painted and polished to resemble marble or granite on the tables and floors of the reception rooms where the folks walk in circles against the rotation they might bespeak or indicate like another suggestion found on the door. A smooth, unbroken surface tingles beneath your feet like a skating rink in winter, slippery and dangerous yet perfect in its smoothness like something referred to a second time but not yet released into the general population.

You’d squall beneath the clouds without interest or nausea, only a slight twinge where the heat might fall aside among strangers and others…. This would be the actor in the wings holding onto his part with both hands, confident in the knowledge that nothing follows where no promises have been made but lurk into the present from other unknown alliances and recollections. Still there is nothing left to claim from the afterthoughts of the day, only a resilience or an absence in the heart’s behavior would cling you outward from this buzzer of light which was not intended to be seen at all but which has established another presence between the day and its aftermath in the heart together again like an old baseball team lined up around home plate for the awarding of cups and saucers made out of doubt and transition into the layers they’d assumed were not necessarily their own but something left behind in the hurry to leave.

‘The well is cleaned but no one drinks from it’(48.3) Deliverance (40) the day clamors upward and pulls you along its light trails from all that you’ve abandoned for one reason or another, as if some identification were made from all the time spent at the table playing solitaire. Cane plants, hand plants, short plants, plants in the morning, plants on the table at evening’s blooming presence marks the page where it opened outward for ever and new marks on the floor around the body politic were let in on the big secret, more lost than was at first feared, no poetry left to go around, must make more and then distribute it broadly, as though the hidden needs were really another answer on the tip of your tongue against the weal and plinty of the disregard itself… ‘We didn’t know’ the cry goes out, falling on equally deaf ears, deadened by the roar of the sound itself, the surf sound from the beach filling the night sky with a resounding crash and boom from the dark margin to the west filling with crab-boat lights peeking over the horizon like a warning that there’s more to come, more darkness and more boats, all aligned in their special destiny like characters in a movie without any dialog to read, only mum’s and stammers clawing up the sky with their blue and read hours culled upon the sky again.