Saturday, August 11, 2007

tom taylor - what at first made sense

What at first made sense gradually became clear, for it was no mistake at all but a silence from the heavens which got my attention alerted toward the elephant in the punchbowl of life itself no match for what had preceded me into the arena by leaps and bounding lines described as if it mattered. It was love’s anchor caught in my throat like an onomatopoeic bit of phlegm, maybe the wrong word stuck there mid-speech. Love’s due. ‘I’m not heanded’ he cried into the dark surrounding him in the village of life. A cool spin from Jack’s knife upon the floor at more central concerns than thought first from its description almost let go.
He called her back. Tattooed along the ridgeline from truck to hourglass in the window like a flame retardant spoke and wheel were thrown a piece of clay in the hands of the potter’s wheel and chain smoking one after the next in line to speak softly in the moving days ahead were let into light by the chimes beside them, barely moving at all. Would you were here this morning to stroke my bow and chasm not filled but allayed by the champions at dusk no mysteries are revealed here and now but claimed by those who most simply let them be taken from the field next to the house. Nostalgia in the field of husks. A monster entity let loose in the depths of one’s being there in the first place but not entitled for release, not quite yet.
He’d been there and done that. All along the highway signs left out in the rain would not master the situation but allowed it to recur silently across the lobby floor to meet again in the airport under the sign of the times, ten, eleven, once again chiming forward glues in this aspect of life to becalm morning’s hard-on once again the hour in the glass. But held and firm. A distant memory in the scheme and pleasure’s wrap on something flimsy and diaphanous corrected instantly by the machine into its proper rasp and counter. Another clipper in the moon, doused instantly from self acceptance driven along the hilltops and river valleys among the pheasants at their tiny plows.
Still you drove the ancient highways at the curving rabbits spun away at night into the music from the radio which only made their suicidal march onto the highway more bizarre than not. Love’s anchor in this pool of strife would mark you out from the herd no more than any other mystery you’d never understood in the first place becoming more obscure as the days rushed by into each other’s arms clasped for comfort and identity. I wooed you down the days and marked another chink in the walls of the house the logs filled with an oily rope which grew darker with each smoky night they’d reminded themselves of the tiny lines around her eyes were now filled with tears as she read this.
Thence and plenty, a hopeful resin called the surfboard leaning up against the shed was not his, nor hers either. A silent teen marched the floor with his arms upraised against the storm brewing at the outer reaches of the empire wore no clothes yet maintained an appearance of civility even with unfinished sentences falling on the ground, a war criminal in no disguise but the face he wore for everyone to recognize at the slightest whisper of scrutiny as metaphors mixed into puns and reasons to call the diphthong an example of itself.
We paused against the wooden shelf in the hallway which contained my ashes for another life not unintended but made into what it was by love’s anchor in the sand marking the days and nights as if you’d made the time our own again and again, heeling into the sand like a moss or schooner at the dock making its way into safe harbor from voyages long and clear, prepositions aligned in the moonlight according to size and width in the games of life and death we all attribute to some other cause than our own wits.