Thomas Lowe (Tom) Taylor


Hand #4



Moe school

Your flasher dude, unencumbered (again
The mooner noon, lets Yakima prevail

To toner simplicity, the rope’s a-taught
From looser grasps formal strikes

Converts nor maid her imagined prescience
You are now this rampant beast aside

The road. Nor spun from casters walk
Another Roman prevalence recliptic again


Hand #5



landscape two

twelve mile slip of sand unbroken no rocks
no estuary, rivulet or pile seaweed, empty of
people, occasional car with lights in the fog
empty houses usually few signs of life here

holidays people fill the streets make ‘the wave’
surf breaks low rollers around small surf birds
occasional pelican or dead seal or big tree root
wood gleaners with chainsaw and pickup truck

in exile. days you could slice the boredom thick
thoughts run parallel to the coast, occasional doubts
fill your being then relapse to sunsets and slow signs
flags on the foredune to locate the way back home


Hand #6



lingo wars

hinge of fate in mirror swinging in or out
reversal is the mode of incremental shifts
of increasing levels of words from the arm-
chair murderers in comfort zone inhabits

hinge of history unhinged by wordage lofts
the attic claim the veritable flame of cities
sites remained undestructed not for long at
cluster bombs falling radio falling the end

hinge of nations in retreat from all that’s not
saved from the open sores of tales told around
the remaining fires from the remaining cities
shrinkage of time’s warp into instaneity here


LESS EDGE, NOT MERE

advised dissent which went before unseemly debt
on the honker the dissonant recall of unmanageable thoughts
I’m not plenty or further than the taste of metal on your crops
depleted or just ensconced on the wall on a small metal tray
hoops the air beside her best leasing kisses made you what
you are today, or the inert enlivened by what follows out

or had you any sense at all? these are the wooden arrows
stuck in the floor against your knees and feet and arms
where they encroach onto the incoming tides are stretched
into nothing new on the aisles of your own thoughts racked
and stretched as if good as if good where’s the bit plenty hears
your knockers naming the plein air mood still descending now
and then the rockets subside into their own, uh, location from

which speaks right to it, clutters the hegemony with more doubt.
you could say rammin the bone or even bonin the ram but not both
in a sensational retention of the absolute is not recognized but held
in hands and arms with distant recluse and fathom, though heard
so it’s all right from here, all right in the distances through which
we travail in the dark through into the light following at noon


Hand #7




 
 
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