------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------ P O T E P O E T T E X T T W O -- from Potes & Poets Press, Inc. e-mail: potepoet@home.com ------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------- SHE CALLED WATERFALL -- poem and introduction -- THOMAS TAYLOR ------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------- Prose style as descended perhaps from Valery's locutions, but more properly from Lyly's Euphues and the Hydriotaphia (sp?) of Sir Thomas Browne and even in the great sermons of Donne & co. is informed always from without--it comes from somewhere. Here in the darkening gloom where a style is also a behavior following hard upon the collapse of the canon into personal statements, quirky as they may be, there is an assumption that style in itself leads back into "that which is (from) without" and emerges as "itself through itself." In a piece of prose, one wants, of course, to depart from a given location, peruse one's way through a discourse, monolog or no, and finally return to a sense of closure, the perfect paragraph. But no, here there is a sense of coming through the broken sentences into an overaly which is itself another time, a doorway into cosmic space which is only hinted at by the surrealists with their simple emplacement of two distinct "others;" here there is a conscious attempt at all times to lay over as many distinct coverages as possible and work against normal expectations of rhythm and comfort (and their interaction) to create not a simple sense of disorder or of a disfunctional universe randomly ordered into chance configurations which we impose order upon out of our need to do so, a gestalt of expectations; no, here there is an attempt to lull sense into an opening which is itself a musical interlude allowing for the "leakage" which Pynchon suggests early on in his career--there is more released energy in these, uh, sentences than is expended in their construction, and that's the surprise. The intention of this writing is reformative, that is, it intends restructure consciousness in its manipulation of expectation and promise, and to that extent it is revolutionary and didactic at a time when absence seems to be confused with emptiness. **************** ------------------------------------------------------------------ She Called Waterfall Anabasis (Thomas Lowe Taylor) Nor past, but handwriting delayed no justice intervened in your own case a past respite no clamored was within also insistence at the head, the head at other parts were also noted, made certain, clustered in within what substances were declared moot or only forebush. His airs had not retreated solemnly, with solemnity, nor held. This at outer, was at had and simpler slogans reviled syntax no scooters overheard were not signed or eased out, rough clamor of drum and trumpet section, the rhythm bubbling outer outward claiming forward flowing moto par-nar. Theirs were forgotten sentences, reminded of their own passion and structure by the ease of their motion toward their own ends, strange, perhaps in the tenure of the centuries, but nonetheless their style demoted them toward indefinite pleasures, though kept on writing toward the end of time, there were also other, less remote tenures obtained or subsided from their attributes, wherein called but not resist a "favored outer." His rhythm duskers-out froward clues the heart's scum is not helicoptered into lessons, butt held and known as one in sum outer held lessons are harder met yet within the scope of action in his hours intense, lets me score it downers loop and certain. I'd at, orphaned scheme was his beyond claim, admixed hint and stain of the rallying hearts--still within view or claim, the others left behind in memories charts are voices in the mists, calm at first a mixture there, too, of what is chosen from the details of recall in their passionate embrace from details gleamed their own existence hung associative from one smell to another, these familiar tempos having laid bare extensity withering on the loops of yr hair, itself strung, laden or smitten. Hidden. It's a long canister forward from when they said you just couldn't do it. Butt rascals out. It's part of a sign or else the whole thing mentating in your own presence as an invasion of other arcs where he said: the lady, broadened out by desire herself, of herself, for herself, that is, psycho-troped into the removal from location. He says rude things. The hoser pulled forward into the light a spasm or detention held at the other ports you were headed into something formed or let them down--but hope interned the scorers room demarks outer the heart's roping turns, as in going along you struggle over hidden gems you put in your own way, diverting as they might be these little acres you flog, hurtling doubts asided from rancor heart overt lates foment calm clouds, or half to seem, center or outer love her arc and foam, love her distance from everything, buttressed hours fog and attach, lesser armature the books latered about to smooth my own sense of what heard or herded, then loop, then skull, then motor, then hour of need, harp head horning hopping, thus at form, love lights longer strong the arm the roof moon smart shape strokes. I'd at had, but smoked to heave them light. It was a decent clanging, and I met you again, here in the moon of nights, here in the damper spoon. It'd been love in its anchoring of time, or subsistence gained at roam-on car. Oaf. Former bin, them wast at floats the spans, the open leaners, hope in your ancient declines where heat opens, moto plenitude to the heart's other being, her face opening into your own moan; spiel at, bloater at, her light fan, bracing your own smoothing hearts at the other way, a deeper tan you might have left for doubt to anchor but declined more movement. When will the results be in from all this, uh, fooling around. Like he said, "Oh, no, we're never done with anything around here...." I remember what was out there, at the beginning of all this. I remember who was there and who was not, the elevator doors opening onto someone you thought you'd never see again, didn't want to really, and he looks at you and says, actually, "What are you doing here," like, in my movie. But you go on, asking dumb questions and charming them with this so-called appearance of smartness, and actually all you wanted was to get by without being named a fraud or sauce, or a spare coin on the counter of life, better a sauce than a fountain, too soon given yet too late not to scan them down again with some favor, or a suggestion to take off from this point and begin anew. Begin anew. This at had, was to no other as one besides. And you'd not known new, foretold into limiting these uh participations was not along but seamed tight into forgives it lastly the door opening into light and healing, these were the outer chains. And into moving, these were the other signs, not too much every day, but a light along the signs that your heart was here in its newer form, new shoes squeaking in the moonlight dance, the seawater making the leather dry, cracked, and salty. Marsh, the painter, I man, yrs too light (lite). Spin and punter, a normal belined portico, heaven's own daughter, the spunk'd tome, my own dart. Ah! Oh, I'd beckoned and then quit. Impatient allocation of itself withering in motel rooms where I roamed her lights out. Small whine of pressure. A nickel for what to do. Potato park, er, bark. Mightily spore, but sensate, these hours demark the spot where the newer arcs began, and in your own hesitation left the day when you knew it was all over, you, like a sponge or distil. Other hearts welcomed narcs forward the loop, moon, purse or phloem-pocked repetition of lessons until betrayal or exhaustion or the final proof made bare in your blood calmed from distinct to the lesser coil, our "heroes of doubt." Poker to knot, his asters plume and phone explosion outs him in another climate unattending or forgiven into love's joints cast willingly hurtled from lesser spheres into the wholeness and implicit warning signs are splinted to your arms and wrapping. This is the open hour her signs eclipse other marks have let them out, marked the soil and spent another moon. Oar your total forms harness moto-script, a light or loop descents. Thurn un Taxis, remember? Early accountants, I think, but only a blip on the oddities of association, what are we to do with this flotsam of eclectic history, find another Rush Limbaugh of poetics? The fat boy, an outsider of ethics, too. Archetype of poetic disturbances, perhaps a zit, another sock, or tyre interns focal hope his rockets poised on center and smock, tied, back off, mudflap, the coin glow or leather jacket emblem of self, a sweaty hand along your cheek makes you more nervous than aroused, but it's ok really, she means well and holds you dong and wang their own protuberances in hand or as well, the movie in your other room was not a spooky substance but a letter marked aloft. Sheep to the grinner team, kinds of sentences aligned separately into their own grime, it is not so much the meaning itself as the appearance of meaning that is imported toward fisheries and command. Speak this certitude, mote its pleasance. Nor to offal pumiced actor porks hit seam loam en- encode buyer delaware. Oar hotel. A resting place for presto logs, the sofas are better paved within. Paced. Or forward leaning diatribes which specify that you are bored and then carry you aloft through disjunkt tribes and their loaner buttes, hoping nonetheless for a backwash or residual effect that buys later than not at all, sublimned darters their hoars delift and penter. Bit sporned. Harder forms require rehearsal or doubt for their foundating presumes. You spinner, crowd me out--cram, speak to me now, oh presence of eternal splendor and munificence, hear total glue the prodded flume his golden yield but I won't steal, it's a compliment to be subsumed to another's work, an inherent footnote to your own uselessness, and an acknowledgement of lesser status. And so in the fortitude of signs, I remove this from your apex, lean forward into the often and spoke, heaving deluxe bins delight another claimant to forward dues at reflex or suck bestowal, ah, remit, ah, defenester; or bloat, er, bleat. Direct not too often, but why? You're a farm entire, bearing fruit, you know, and home them one onto skein, the later'd boor, historical and promute, the fondled ad too "yo" infirm then splints, ester of formal bombs to coffee mooding in your hour. A pleasant bisque permits raker dudes them spunk affixes poetry skin their latent blue. An old, scarred noun, resting in his sentence, believing in the diagram (in spite of himself), why are there only nouns here? Now I have a bit of everything. Yod'd plud, nor spud intermet histen potel forps. Thun beline what's outer'd port his esker pume to floap. Norger pune, lets arc and sky this eastern phomen pinnacle dart your ear too deal this and no outer but a newer boat residing in heart central a bloom or other love object, totem, spin, him at her, to crouch or glisten, touched, the loaming tin, she hammers out and rolls back again and again, he, clenched at the berm no shower before the dark, and then sigh into it, wind, sign, the lower form, recluse, isoderm, bar, the punter skin, sheep to her blowing hair, moose to his deeming tint the later boat, scoped, gelatin. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Thomas Taylor's She Called Waterfall is POTEPOETTEXTTWO.... 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