Friday, March 27, 2009

robert delford brown

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

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tom taylor


Luxor hazelnut unrestrained vigor from the cellular walls inside time itself where no man sings. Aloud to the skies ‘luxury apartments for rent’ no master products remitted under hand and arm signals against at the sunset horizon online and everywhere’s else in victu
Narks the matter inside what was left here on the page wriggling no where the same sun glowing under a column of numbers now, now.

I hear hazelnuts lounging in the far distance, maybe the near ~~ their fall rotundity demeanors no insignificant allowances for dust or mites; hear the fog lifts to no uncertain terms, turning you into doubt itself. Here’s the nugget itself, sounding out in the sentence with gusto, with guts ~~ the remarkable fall of hundreds from the laundry lists distributed at the market daily or not. Time enough.

The more recent hazelnuts declined amnesty and then carried on intensely enough to pardon the outers from their non-reminiscences; here was the new wafer, waiting at the fringes of the circle for there to be no more hot sauce on the sides of the knife to burn your lips and call the new day a waiting game for people who have difficulty walking or even seeing their shoes enlarge into the span.

“Hazelnut my ass” the cry went up into the rafters, afloat as they were; this was no time to dally or flaunt…. Inside doubt was the answer we’d all occluded for, hastening our own time-in-grade for the soldiers in the army of none. The cleaner read something in the tealeaves on the door, splattered upside down in a mimicry of the last hostages to leave the plane in their long underwear.

The trees bare hazelnuts daily twisting in the rain, here where the dirt under the trees is vacuumed clean by a big machine you can ride, not a sweeper exactly, but rather a grown affair not unlike a rider mower, but with large inflatable and fillable bags mounted on the rear of the machine between the two rear wheels; now, when there’s more than you can imagine do the nuts themselves pop and ride.

Calls retreat a newer nomenclature from which this pool this air no masters aside the chrome horse he put it names the lighter hues the northern end of what retreated in the first place a cal a destiny a future chasm seaming shut inside time itself is held at the arm of length the wet dirt floors all polished smooth by the bare feet of the other escapees which reminds us of the eternity of the hazelnut.

tom taylor


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….

John M. Bennett & Baron


toads and flamingos, my trousers
eggs that fly by the ceiling
streets of red tape and fleas
the lost wet suitcase
the curve of the neon crayon

malicious pencils jumping in my dreams


Monday, March 23, 2009

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