tom taylor
BATIK
Il rapunto to the max, nor consequences unintended by the mark and pleasure of her company, “plagiarists of our own past” unaccompanied by the force that feeds them. Finds us forcing alone into uncertain territory, a lady’s lovely face at the car window as you speed by in the night time of your own illusions, in lingo stretched between shape and specific rumors which might or might not have been processed before reaching your lips in the name of food.
Latened now by the max of thus – it’s a stretch any way you think about it, a feeling also of these very consequences we might all allow on the screen of our inattentions. The dead shoulders of last week peeking through the new, wet snowflakes so unusual at any time of the year but made more welcome here because of the season and the rest of the cues for historical presage managed onto the flow of the day….
So maintaining one’s presence when the rest of the world has gone mad, driven to the brink by everything around us, one becomes the misfit by being fit, now You are the madman and everyone else ‘individualized’, so goes the chatter. Following my nose tells me to go straight ahead, unbroken sentences reply in the morning. “the patterns of sentence structure that guide words are more important than the word.” And “sentences not words are the essence of speech.” The immortality of silence, a melding of all things.
Denotative signifiers do not identify but rather coalesce the locale of the thing, as “the the.” Removing the limiting tag raises the reference to a higher level of what it is. Partition disregard, there is a force field around each word and letter on the table and they call out with their own loneliness and ambition, “make me a T” it says, “take me now,” says another…. The composition is oblivious to all this conjecture and will have nothing to say until the deal is done. He was fronting the whole time, holding a bible as though he was reading it at the bus stop, but not really, all a front, a show.
Still I feel your arc across my history at all times having to let go over and over until there’s nothing left to let go…. I’d fashioned the rope of my own escape and hung it over the iron spikes which surrounded me. I heal to go upwards and carry the words with me all the way, I made that promise to the talent, not to give out or cheap off. All done in an instant or two I can recall. Safety in the admixture of styles, not as a destiny so much as a resting place in memory’s recall and stutter. Dante’s significance notwithstanding, your own heroes are sharp in focus for these acts and seasons.
Suddenly the urgency was real, finally a part of the deal behind the lingo and the spores. Just as these images, faces really in a never-ending parade, have all fused into a single series of impressions and fallacies all recognized by the spirit at play, this might be the answer to all your problems, a convenient insertion for the newspaper coming each day the same way to your front porch. Not a joke at all, but the hearty flood of information which means something to someone in the overworld of the not-me…. This world and the next lined up for their chance at history to be at all, here in the afterglow again….now you stupor into the cinema with your popcorn and calm delusions cataloged for the show.
Il rapunto to the max, nor consequences unintended by the mark and pleasure of her company, “plagiarists of our own past” unaccompanied by the force that feeds them. Finds us forcing alone into uncertain territory, a lady’s lovely face at the car window as you speed by in the night time of your own illusions, in lingo stretched between shape and specific rumors which might or might not have been processed before reaching your lips in the name of food.
Latened now by the max of thus – it’s a stretch any way you think about it, a feeling also of these very consequences we might all allow on the screen of our inattentions. The dead shoulders of last week peeking through the new, wet snowflakes so unusual at any time of the year but made more welcome here because of the season and the rest of the cues for historical presage managed onto the flow of the day….
So maintaining one’s presence when the rest of the world has gone mad, driven to the brink by everything around us, one becomes the misfit by being fit, now You are the madman and everyone else ‘individualized’, so goes the chatter. Following my nose tells me to go straight ahead, unbroken sentences reply in the morning. “the patterns of sentence structure that guide words are more important than the word.” And “sentences not words are the essence of speech.” The immortality of silence, a melding of all things.
Denotative signifiers do not identify but rather coalesce the locale of the thing, as “the the.” Removing the limiting tag raises the reference to a higher level of what it is. Partition disregard, there is a force field around each word and letter on the table and they call out with their own loneliness and ambition, “make me a T” it says, “take me now,” says another…. The composition is oblivious to all this conjecture and will have nothing to say until the deal is done. He was fronting the whole time, holding a bible as though he was reading it at the bus stop, but not really, all a front, a show.
Still I feel your arc across my history at all times having to let go over and over until there’s nothing left to let go…. I’d fashioned the rope of my own escape and hung it over the iron spikes which surrounded me. I heal to go upwards and carry the words with me all the way, I made that promise to the talent, not to give out or cheap off. All done in an instant or two I can recall. Safety in the admixture of styles, not as a destiny so much as a resting place in memory’s recall and stutter. Dante’s significance notwithstanding, your own heroes are sharp in focus for these acts and seasons.
Suddenly the urgency was real, finally a part of the deal behind the lingo and the spores. Just as these images, faces really in a never-ending parade, have all fused into a single series of impressions and fallacies all recognized by the spirit at play, this might be the answer to all your problems, a convenient insertion for the newspaper coming each day the same way to your front porch. Not a joke at all, but the hearty flood of information which means something to someone in the overworld of the not-me…. This world and the next lined up for their chance at history to be at all, here in the afterglow again….now you stupor into the cinema with your popcorn and calm delusions cataloged for the show.
posted by jim leftwich at 2:21 PM
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