tom taylor
SELF-STORAGE UNIT
A suit of clothes hung on the wall, only an imprinted shadow-print after a fire, clothes hung the wall with its absence, signs of water having also left some dripping presence on the wall of flame restarted by your silence on the morning of evening. Here you are in a stupor, two flats down from the town itself… eye’d like a garden spot in retreat, you fly into the vapors of the words themselves overlaid with mother of pearl and the compliant heavens carrying us forward at the speed of life itself in reds and blues and browns along the floor of light upon which we dance our turns and spasms for the rising energies like pheasants running from the chasing dog while the beige colored mama sneaks up the hill into the growth hanging from the trees onto the mat of needles which makes her slink into her background camouflage
Raised from the water arisen tachonomy of light itself a raising too in the doldrums of peace itself does the water fall away into an embrace of pressure to survive into the next evolution of what you might become on the journey of your journey, samurai high-life resonates in the hallways filled with smoke and perfume and mirrors…. The tiny bird by the high window beating like a hummingbird which it wasn’t, coaxed repeatedly with the broom until finally it seemed to give up or relax and then was moved to the open doorway and the broom shaken a bit and the bird flying away into the trees near the house, safe in its rescue and charm
out on the porch in the full moon’s sense of completion, three geese flew along and over the canal which runs behind the house making a kind of reverie to the moment in the dark in the cool on the front porch…. High up in the old trees near the park at the end of the long road where few houses have managed to survive, high up in the trees on their limbs themselves, ferns are starting to grow into the sunlight which churns through the upper reaches like magical birds, the ferns some are rather large, up about thirty feet, others no doubt higher….
The new tree which grows from the cutoff stump of its predecessor, the new tree now about twenty feet tall…. These are some of the signs made felt along the road….
A suit of clothes hung on the wall, only an imprinted shadow-print after a fire, clothes hung the wall with its absence, signs of water having also left some dripping presence on the wall of flame restarted by your silence on the morning of evening. Here you are in a stupor, two flats down from the town itself… eye’d like a garden spot in retreat, you fly into the vapors of the words themselves overlaid with mother of pearl and the compliant heavens carrying us forward at the speed of life itself in reds and blues and browns along the floor of light upon which we dance our turns and spasms for the rising energies like pheasants running from the chasing dog while the beige colored mama sneaks up the hill into the growth hanging from the trees onto the mat of needles which makes her slink into her background camouflage
Raised from the water arisen tachonomy of light itself a raising too in the doldrums of peace itself does the water fall away into an embrace of pressure to survive into the next evolution of what you might become on the journey of your journey, samurai high-life resonates in the hallways filled with smoke and perfume and mirrors…. The tiny bird by the high window beating like a hummingbird which it wasn’t, coaxed repeatedly with the broom until finally it seemed to give up or relax and then was moved to the open doorway and the broom shaken a bit and the bird flying away into the trees near the house, safe in its rescue and charm
out on the porch in the full moon’s sense of completion, three geese flew along and over the canal which runs behind the house making a kind of reverie to the moment in the dark in the cool on the front porch…. High up in the old trees near the park at the end of the long road where few houses have managed to survive, high up in the trees on their limbs themselves, ferns are starting to grow into the sunlight which churns through the upper reaches like magical birds, the ferns some are rather large, up about thirty feet, others no doubt higher….
The new tree which grows from the cutoff stump of its predecessor, the new tree now about twenty feet tall…. These are some of the signs made felt along the road….
posted by jim leftwich at 10:03 PM
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