a Room without Walls


ANABASIS (Thomas Lowe Taylor)
    / A E 2 /

ANABASIS (Thomas Lowe Taylor)

PART 1/2

* * * * * *     *****    *****     *                   *  *

* *   *                    *      *          ****     * * *
*            *         *                     *     **
**     *         *               *     **              **
 *         *                 *               *   *
*   *             *         *    *                 *  *    *
       *               *              * *       *





 "So much lost that was still unknown, perhaps an actual
 sense of what the precise distances were, it is no secret
 any more that we don't know shit, yet such finely polished
 ignorance in what passes for the dialectic in operando, yet
 still the nagging murmur that more was left aside than was
 particled in the final hours of the status quo in its own
 demeanor retreating and retreating into history and the
 empty silence in favor of the hot electric sense of being
 there on the line speaking out against the odds that it
 will  be heard at all, you are still no more than the
 meat'r of the moment, in your hot complexity made stern or
 simple, "no problem" you say, tugging on the bill of the
 blue baseball cap which has only just caught the beginnings
 of the rain onto its top step of forgiveness, a focus from
 appositive shifts made sentinel or central in this, this
 nervous system of light the thrusters poking doubt its
 plenty sheen made more simple in the seeing of what was
 there just now submerging in the tiger-glow a love supreme
 no mere exaggeration of the keeper kept fulfilled her
 spouting mucoid empenetrando il rapunto shored nor fault
 resenting feebler kinds than not spun centrals their slim
 potes remute nor spent, her heart hided out in what's small
 within squat, not larked but utter, utter in the pine &
 salt on her lips the lingering skein renews'd.

 ...The soldiers at their dues receive no welcome tents
 their innocence spilled on foreign shores for cause for
 cause enough the will of the total body stops such defying
 gravitons, healing from within no permitanto il rapunto "en
 desiree" yod plude sd sphincter rotunt, tight, in inert
 desputada pores her shaling spliff my sign made dark by
 disalliance; these what kempt some on top and while yet
 some not, you've still plunged fortunate forward arms
 sentinel the dripping flag flogged back & sent her deep
 within charm itself to work some magic personal inventory
 was held intense his spouter sporter hors nix in tent or
 blondo perfando hair down to here, but held and firm you'd
 left this, uh, document with the story inside shoots you up
 within intent fortune's farther out than not un-reminded
 why they left soon foot soldiers tear the lovers apart in
 sense some quiet part of yourself made outer or immense by
 someone's doubt he'd not occluded penis nor outer scores
 loop to loop within knots heard internal open microphone of
 the heart your own science ploods eplumed marker knocks
 narcs their own sustenance poker face the spirit lags,
 makes peace, holds to the enormous mountain on the dogleg
 laid wooden sentinels in deluxe repulsion, love's full body
 coring deep within your sudden dance and sway of light
 beginning to become you who you are through you are

                                 Anabasis, "Day of Memory"


 Supposed from offers sent, then, no mere sentinals have
 revived the hours any further than that; and where no
 matter has been sent, or perceived, neither has it been at
 all, you see, where no matter meters in the mists, then, no
 matter has been sent to what is still beyond description in
 the set of what might be perceived.

 Wouldn't you have seen that?  After all, what is sent is
 set or sentenced, too.  Or that what might follow is still
 there as a choice, a playardo from the riskier attitudes,
 but holding out in chance against what the pokerface
 response should become, not afar but bent, you know,
 outside the realms of choice or forgiveness, a solo venture
 not reminded from any direction in particular how it might
 be, or might have been, that'd be the thing to pay
 attention to, not some, uh, summary of intents or a
 description of its burgeoning stance, its faltering
 reprisal, unknown, the intent of its intents what gave rise
 to it like whiplash accidents, they're never the same after
 that.  A loco'ed weed tale, not particular nor remute into
 sensate bento, but o'er looped into its own nostalgia for
 meaning, like, inside it.  That's the open cur, er, cue on
 the footsteps behind you gaining once or twice, not
 hereafter, nor even particular, but like bent.

 And that'd no longer be in the realm of authority chastened
 (no longer possible) but left bereft of intent, you know,
 power deprived of its object just rages around and finally
 dies of inattention.  Fires down.  You'd occluded and not
 fondled the re-attempts of what you were doking out among
 your own natives, present or not, of whomsoever went into
 the looking in the first place to go beyond its own
 directions and stay firm, man, in the face of unintended
 fire, stasis'd out into the pattern itself, nor made intent
 in the first place by its own messaging, but laid bare in
 the face of an unmitigated gaze of no particular direction;
 carryover to the deal itself, then, a goal and not a
 direction.  Less a puzzle than a gnat.  Conflict enlarged
 into other directions.  Lingering tides on the face of maps
 are made distinct by the gaze that falls upon them.  Don't
 be too hard on that.  Weighted a little on the heavy side,
 you don't mind the drift to one side or the other, and not
 noticing whether anything has been done to you or not,
 begin to etherize in the sensate realm not signing but
 laying the groundwork for other ideas return to discourse.
 Even if you'd had your own ruminant stranger to stir the
 fanatics, still there wouldn't have been enough time to
 sort it all out, not to mention the seminars and
 transductions, complacent or otherwise, which cud take the
 place of listening to the music itself....

 Nor would simple inattention to the matter itself still the
 rain pealing on the signs along the way, misting the sense
 of itself a broken mirror or a match of some other destiny
 outlasting itself throughout the passion leaning within the
 gesture from the edge of the lining.  I mean, here you are
 with the wind blowing the air out of the air leaving less
 than a vacuum, liver and onions on the blue screen waving
 free hands spinning around the day itself a liner on the
 weaving plane of inattention of what little has passed by,
 really, on the way to the post office posting out what is
 left behind, oh yeah, noticed on the floor of morning with
 your shirtsleeves out into the moving traffic lining out
 signers onto lame brick potentiated devil inside, every one
 us, every single one of us, goes the mantra repeated song
 of the day beating down upon the loom and tempo, mooding
 slight to song the healing air bones you up the day's door

 A hooted door might begin sideways emotions flailing
 painfilled walls give way into the rote stupor of the
 survivor, still intent on living you begin to do pushups in
 the dark, not healing exactly intent on living and
 finishing up some things, but still held infirm in fanatic
 sents the plutarde of the moto laid nonmatic in tense left
 firm in turn interned but held and firm, no motor in the
 magic but a form of surrounding and then letting the
 sentence go on through it one staid at a time, you said,
 not occluded, really, but held and firm'd to the slider in
 your tents a single beating on the wall's floor of what'd
 been shelter to some and a passing sign to others, not
 reeling exactly, but left to themselves, some folks will
 and others just won't figure it out, it's just that simple,
 and all this maundering about what does it all mean is just
 that you got there a little late and all the marbles have
 been handed out, where to dance and where's to go infirm on
 the silence of your own solitude.

 Liberties intended in the loosing of the chains, where the
 rote spark might have been intended to leave its own
 trails, still the nonmatic gears up into and within that
 tense intent and leaves it dusting in the trail, a little
 like blasting out into warp drive and finding ol' big-ears
 on your doorstep the next day, you know?  But I'd not
 noticed anything particularly one way or the other, and yet
 here at the edge of nothingness, the blue-white trails of
 the cursor and its marks on the eye are still a layer on
 the floor of my own imagining.  Lame to the deal but still
 bending might be a better way to put it.  Out.  And the
 non- of the -matic might be in the cues themselves to be
 uninvolved in the process at the same time leading you
 astray into and beyond the emotion of the moment itself.
 Not caring, you might say, robo-stradic, but not informed,
 just, uh, inaccurate, where "accuracy" is the main thing in
 an exercise, not its truth or falsity, since they are
 always up for review, but the thing itself of whether it
 was rendered cautiously or not at all, or just left in the
 sun to bake with the other shit.

 Culinary, entrail and doom, but the rest buries itself in
 the time of choosing, still letting you down the way and
 pealing off, but not in the manner of your own motives are
 you laid bare but in the spark itself of what might have
 passed before you, here and there, and made passion a
 torture in your midst.  Let it go in the excesses of which
 it was once a part.  Still you to the doorway into the next
 room.  Loaners and dryers in their own lines, still dogging
 you aside and further, still leading the strays astray into
 and beyond the lemming trail, mountainous mounting gloom of
 the day before yesterday still coming among us one after
 the other....  I'd been occluded, too, but still held
 intent and firmed-over within the decorums.


 They went hoodwinked along among, yet still a cement and
 told.  I thought it was My music, non-inflammable and
 plain, nor spent nor held, but let out without claim or
 sender, and that was how it strained forward into seeming
 or sentences itself.  That was the muter dee.  Lost among
 sentences, but the plain itself of what is smart and what
 is not, and still unsaid in the simpler things of which we
 could just, uh, go on and on.  Beautiful thing.  "Boards,"
 was how we put it on the check.  Still the smell of her
 lingers on your hands.  Lighter, too, in view of what
 follows from that, you know, how the party goes on into
 whatever is there in sight, inside.  Maybe it had followed
 from that into its own futures, soon you wonder whether the
 pressure to have been there at all was sufficient, you
 know, to have strained you forward in intent, thrust you
 Enough into what was going on to have been of consequence
 in your own self made something, more or less, ballistic.
 And still, you held here, where you'd been before, waiting,
 along among, along.

 Would be not so much to lose the thread, had there been one
 there, but to have woven its imagined existence into
 something, a wonder or sense of it, a complicatedness which
 itself might be curious enough to embellish or cargo, lay
 it hold and center, make it so, the good Captain says,
 courageous "son of a sailor" was how he put it out, to see,
 then, into the blue sea, these are the times; so the party
-animal-dude persona evaded him, left him alone on the beach
 of impersonations and temptations, to become one syntax or
 another, a "tron" of sentences, loading up ammunition and
 then blasting out into an informative cluster, blasting it
 into useless gerunds and participles of insentinence, that
 was how it went on the ranch, uh, before.  An entire Blasto
 Profundo of acid trekked solitudes, made encoded ratfuck
 and demento from the stroked choked chicken of the
 typewriter and the fang of woodenness made of wonder and
 then let purple on the vein entire planets made from this,
 dispute.  She of the entire purple and he of the entire
 vein, planets made internal, er, infernal.  You'd say hell
 and lay your body down.


 Knowledge, then, of the viscero-enterological kind, nor
 remoted behaviors roted across de-fruited planes,
 narcoleptic insensatology of the denied spirit wrestles
 free enough to question the iron grip of the mentato,
 diminishing itselfishness beyondated downer glow insider
 moon the particle claimant into such knowing, not a tauto-
 but mentatological sprain into the wilderness of one's own
 discontents.  And in the treeing of words branching upwards
 into a rooted oneville, then, dog and cat emerge into their
 spastic intents, onomatopoeic kabalanoids where they fly in
 the face of convention, relying momentarily on the elucids
 they pursue or invent toward, such is the cling of word on
 page into its constituents, or at least approximal'd to me
 from my own fluxuatos into the realm of the undiscovered.

 What a benign bunch of shit, you ask, and go on into
 another story for a more relaxing fit, you know, the fit of
 it, wrathing at the mouth of somebody's "other"
 dream/scream, here is its own woolen fortune failing
 proudly, and strains upward clinging fox to tail the matter
 of the -matic into its own dimension of how, empowered, and
 from what source your batteries drain and reflux. Elmatico,
 still shelved from the last adventure, not mating into the
 planer realm, but shocked alive from transit to adventure
 itself, is this the story of your cells?  Surely, then, the
 blood pudding in its chemical relux and calm instills into
 its own sense of how the electrons are balanced, yet
 another pencil gleam into the cerebral cortex of your own
 fantasms, holograms interfused in the graying of the matter
 into "in locus madnessoidal," was he left aloned betoner,
 no less vacuumed than not; magister plain not followed by
 anything, still intents into the wild abandon with which it
 slams into the netting, promute and skein.  Below bounds,
 another novel entry into the fray only intimates at
 narrative, and yet abounds into the mental laps by
 integring you into the procedural and bounty.  Not more but
 less is the entry into the next moment, crouching as you do
 in the face of an onslaught of "new" information, still as
 it is sent, so too is it received.
                                                <END PT I/2>

PART 2/2

 But this is yet another wolf in the clothing of the image,
 still a more or less insensate dimension to a lack of
 definition, like in some kind of clotting, how the filler
 of the thing, articles and evasive kinds of "peradventure"s
 renoun you into a less than verbal entourage into the
 sacred heart of the paragraph, where her secret is revealed
 willingly, if only you'd notice.  Nor matter, it is every
 milisecond the same way taught if you'd slow to a stop,
 nonmatic to the core and found in your detractions from the
 absolute to only recommend them more highly than you'd
 thought in the absence of any information to the negatory.

 So you tend to mutter only about what you know, as if in
 tapping onto the forehead of the conscious vocalization,
 it's only the tech manual of the forehead responding, uh,
 type left, say the thing over again, such debacled
 intrusions as the manual will permit, nor pleasers in the
 foxhold, and no more of this "see above" shit, it's either
 in front of you or it is not, and what's the difference
 anyhow, in delighting her in front of her father, you'd
 more or less shamed him in front of her to him, and it was
 the penetranto that met the chasm of her own regard, as
 young as she was or is, not that is no longer held in
 secret but displayed as a motive, you could actually touch
 the electrons in there, when you'd gotten so small that you
 could invade your own energy machinations, not a robot hold
 in the recesses of Voyager.

 I'd held in terms infirm no pleaser in my self, but made
 certain on the face of it, to others, you might say, and
 left along the way, by myself, to pose the questions of
 which I might ask.  Not forgotten, nonetheless, not
 recalled in terms of fire and ice, cold inside, and the
 streets themselves remind you of doubt, inherent and
 responsive, a name in the winds of distaste which you might
 inherit and then pass on into the others beside you, yet it
 is a ghost feeling in the heart itself, fed by being seen
 though left in the wings by a sentence or a withdrawal.
 Here at the forgotten edge, with the rain bleating tictic
 on the double paned windows, I'm at sign with no thing but
 the self of the radio, and when the high note dives off
 into a scene or a poster from the moon, I die alongside the
 moon itself, and that's no motor in your madness but a sign
 of quick retrieval.  No patterned in the scone, but looped
 within chants.

 Nor spoon withdrawal, nope unintended, but held and firm.
 No longer aloniated from within the centre of the acted
 poron of itselfed portunato.  Laid up or aside, but no
 outer in the mists of morning, you know.  Thisl'd hone up
 and spur the later mikes into dominance in the line of
 action, or said or not, but acts are the money of light and
 singular-out into the lates in term or noto, laid and
 spender, not nosotro any seemant, butt linter polks ahead
 slim rapunto the manner of the mook.  The "netboys" and
 "netgirls" in their cute little units, uniforms that is,
 satin sheen panties and cute little red-white-blue, tightly
 serged up the poot-hanky, and the guys in inflatables,
 capes, of course, and little masks that racoon their eyes
 invulnerable, netscaping around the place like adverbs on
 retreat, all hands and eyes but no contact ever really
 takes the place of il penetranto, the electro-viscero
 -enterolgical spasming of words into their physical
presence is the flow of change on your own vocable present,
n'est-ce pas?

 And so the golden shroud descends, from above limned like a
 pony on the cart, all along the highway and lining the
 heart with its own gold, it is love on the liners of the
 scene, named for another term in office, love on the moon
 of chance, love on the highway of light, nor il reparte not
 unspoken hours soul'd from mine to yours in the car or not.

 I'd been down the coast too many times to forget, and yet
 the last couple of times, it was just too too much newness
 and you thought, there must be an end to this, after all,
 we're's the outer limit of Yowza Boss! and inter mingled
 within the present is the giving, and it might hold onto
 morning, but not enough time has passed ever to read this
 again, yet memorize it into your visceral importunities,
 no, man, there must be some easier way to do this, some
 Drug, MDA for instance, or what is it? Ecstacy, that's the
 deal, the MMDA or whatever, the ol' love drug, we tried
 that, remember and it was popularized out like acid was,
 franchised to the masses with no operating manual, so it's
 touchie feelie, all over again, the maskers in the mutated
 plain, no wrapper but another many-tongued madness
 frenching you in the dark, kittens licking your eyelids,

 You're sold.  That's it.  If there Is a "you."  Just as, if
 there really is a "self."  No matter, we can still trope
 and grope, its a collective enterprise with encoded mutings
 passing for lingua transfer; yet still an image is a
 destiny and we all absolve into the right hand lane
 whenever portunated.  Here's the wind, howling around the
 place.  Ol' Rope-a-dope insinuator, the dogleg particle on
 the edges of the cellulite.  Its a no-brainer, & that's
 entire, not a sludge or fence in sight, you know, the left
 hand a spasm in the dark for your friend and signal, but
 the rest is too much for dreaming, left aside within the
 sending is itself a massage on the temporal lobes of
 whatever follows from That.  Sentinal rebuke, another
 nomination in the halls of justice, or a food-drive gone
 bad in the neighborhoods, with more taking than giving
 going on, why not us first here at home before you care
 about anybody else?  This accursed wave, these, uh,
 demographic times.  Its the bell shaped curve no longer a
 center of idealistic hot-pants winnowing but the smooth
 enumerated denial of flesh in the tantra episodic realms of
 the evasive and the sublime, where's the mantra in this,
 huh?  "Loaf" you say over and over, and pretty soon you're
 in a pan and sliced out, bannana or hollyberry, no
 packaging from Orowheat will satisfy the distributor;
 Larry, I think.

 It is.  Nearly bold, and enstonced marker due, helter
 panted let them wide, nor homey in her bans and stalkings,
 bulging a little for the hem or money, him banter no
 pleasure but dreams a lot is the name of the driftward
 mono-print her delivery a pooter in the knee.  Claybourne.
 Esperant.  Bar-holder.  Finally, the ghost planet
 interferes.  It is too large.  Beneto Fluroset stares
 woodenly at the interfering rainbows, bounded as they are
 by the faces of light which are his heritage and his
 planet, at the same time laming toward the center of his
 own hologram, a doubter in his own time singing a simple
 song of light and dark; it is still midwinter in the holo
 -hold of his denial, and the story is both teller and tale,
 for when he gazes down he sees, there on the floormat, a
 cheesburger in some paradise of his own making, space-shit
 intact with its pressurized follicles, a destiny away from
 mutiny on the subservient folds of flesh you call the host
 of your own enemies, another moondot spelendot subdivided
 in the here and now of something other than doubt. The
 mooner gold is still a knot in your stomach.  Isn't it?
 Well, mine is, and no mooner is still a doubt better than
 none, no?  The sacred spaghetti is now laid along the
 sides, no more than this or that, but a characterless drama
 inter-reams your hope and passion for another mutation of
 light, all novels should be banned.  As repressive forms of
 communication which alter consciousness and make it less
 receptive to "real thought" that's the right wing argument
 for moslemic diatribic reductios onto the face of the
 spasm, no figure of man permitted on the screed of the
 temple or the fox of the tempo, what's the diff?  Make a
 noodle on the rest, where's the big screen movie, how would
 you entertain the masses and with what if not with what's
 at hand, now, out there, what else would you do, to
 generate or perpetuate poetry, for instance, or even your
 own particular brand of it, the Olsonic and the total

 There'd be some sort of thrust-motor attached, a creel or
 bono, ya know, a tutor and a sponto.  Or both in the one or
 either in the other, whose ship is it anyway?  More like a
 freighter.  Layered marn, the stroke of the tonto, lest and
 prunto.  Nisk.  Here's the rask, nor done nor not, but
 you'd know it if it asked, I can tell you that, and if you
 ignored the first rasputin, there's another couple and then
 you're done, dead, flattered at first and then flattened.
 My Sharona.  Desperately Wanting.  The wrist gores bie, na
 nay flexor in turn internaled, but held and first the waltz
 and then the tango peals your head aside, nothing in
 dispute, really, but the laners, the loaners, the others in
 the dark wanting to make contact but not first, making
 neither move nor mask, but staying sullen sudden then
 later, worse.  That's the history of nowhere, what was want
 then not, knotted out into something else which is entirely
 free.  Intensated.

 You'd not remind, but plenty.  Noting thus laid aside, the
 wind howls incessant retoner in the sculptor of the
 beachline, for instance, holding skeletal tree shit into
 the dusting clouds of low-fly stealth-sands blasting
 through the miniature nests of drift scum like trek-flam.
 Lung-ko, streetwise and yet tingling with, uh, disrepute,
 flagged a taxi with his other flipper, a signing thing
 without flux or sentor, and then nailed off with a pont,
 while the drover spun his tomo-don alongside smiling putas
 with their portmanteaus ensnared.  Unreflective objects,
 really, which never live up to their potential, it's the
 reflux of the outer holds them dear enough to become
 something in the liner notes.  This other wind in sensate
 rhyme no puter in the musko of the bolder signs, yet
 heralded with an immunity and a sign itself which dispel
 any sense of hesitation you might formerly have held toward
 the thing itself in its domain, the thing itself remanded
 into custodial and realm'd into its own demeanor an
 intensigh formulated herein and outer.  A small fish,
 perhaps, which resembles another "kind" of life-form,
 skonko sham, the latent postern of whatever follows from

 There'd be a hierarchical demeanor, a pre-arrangement,
 event design inherent within a so-called chance composo,
 like saying there's a divine plan behind everything or even
 that even Hitler is in heaven, duh.  No more than looking
 within an electron for the cosmic glue which spiritualizes
 the journey itself into a chemical equation, where are you
 in the soup of intents?  Therein the outer of the flux
 where you shim her plenty in order to reach the total of
 your sux and share up into the willingness of the order to
 receive you, that's self sacrifice through fucking, no?
 Leaves her in the dusk, wanting but not giving, or enough,
 perhaps, the flinty due might engage her tonal, but the
 young skein putes your inner stuff more certain than the
 not of the knotted and the flue of the chimnal.  This'd be
 dope to the doper, not its rope and climb.  Finally
 swinging into the room's moon, then shaving off the rest
 rescued by the helicopter intact.

 Nonmat that he is, the chopped juice resumes some doubt or
 other in the syntax of its nothingness, not even meriting a
 mere apostrophe; anti strophe might be more like it, the
 inside out of the story buried in the narrative, like
 Tristram('s) Shandy.  Where's the beef?  It'd deluxe a mime
 into treasure or more plenty, no doubt; you met but missed
 the touch or glue would be nice enough to remind you of
 other mid-points in recollection of the nest or plinty.  A
 scrim to doubt also.  K-cell, the more remote of them, was
 awash in undisturbed recall.  This was the muter dee, that
 of which spoken records did not mention or fail to note
 other.  The less wise of the spoken was not present, thus
 the paragraph went untold into the spasm of the centuries,
 and this itself was cause(d) for alarum, detail, roomer
 goon and spill.  Lates to follow.

     "A white bear!  Very well.  Have I ever seen one?
 Might I ever have seen one?  Am I ever to see one?  Ought I
 ever to have seen one?  Or can I ever see one?  Would I had
 seen a white bear! (for how can I imagine it?)  If I should
 wee a white bear, what should I say?  If I should never see
 a white bear, what then?  If I never have, can, must or
 shall see a white bear alive; have I ever seen the skin of
 one?  Did I ever see one painted?  --described?  Have I
 never dreamed of one?  Did my father, mother, uncle, aunt,
 brothers or sisters, ever see a white bear?  What would
 they give?  How would they behave?  How would the white
 bear have behaved?  Is he wild?  Tame?  Terrible?  Is the
 white bear worth seeing?  Is there no sin in it?"
                   [Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy]

 No, in the time that has followed from, say, a more
 original imprint, the mentation of the moment has not been
 interfered with by the socalled willing suspension of
 anything for there is no such thing as that, although
 forgetting yourself or where you are is more a mental lapse
 or a sign of possession, divine or otherwise, and there's
 no pun in that, but you are not in some other place, give
 me a break.  It's the notion of pressing narrative out of,
 for instance, the declension of a verb, nay, its opposite
 in time, in the timing of the moment, is the subtext
 originally delivered and not without intention.  Sterne,
 himself, notes "...the Game that wit has pointed is
 surfeiting--like toying with a Mans Mistress--it may be a
 Very delightful solacement to the Inamorato--tho little to
 the bystander."  The fabric deeper by far than the layers
 and examples of penetration which it may come to represent,
 at least insofar as man is capable of its witnessing, that
 in this there may be something far more apparent than what
 is only hinted at or simply encompassed within the sphere
 of its references, you know, only hinted at in the
 decompression and stylizations of technique itself which
 Sterne was making up on the spot.  And the first shall be
 the best.  Like later Pynchon forgetting its hesitant
 entries into the matter at all, his own "...leakage...."

It's really about defeating the obsessive.  "Compulsion
 rules the nest."  It's about time you mentioned that,
 counting, obsessing, addicting and deaddicting to basic
 behavior modes so you can just fucking do the dirty work,
 it is so obsessive, and yet to go free off the end head
 over heals, you lose track of spelling and how the
 primitivo leads back into the narrow of the insane flat two
 dimensional world in which there is no time at all don't
 try this at home.  Nonetheless the tic tic of the
 obsessive, Dr. Strangelove really the cosmic masturbator in
 his realm, foregone onto obsessing over wha, the
 incompleteness of the mathematical prelude to whatever,
 break the pattern and you rue the consequent of madness.
 So in the temporary climate of attentions of which we now
 seek, er, speak, here is the lamer dilute of previous
 portions which took place in within a cosmos and a
 delineation of attributes which might, then, even engender
 story, or "a story" into being or not, however the typist
 goes at the end of the page, that's the direction

 Grabs, as in, it is up for.  Yod'd plud, we noted before,
 not so much an anger as a destination with no more possible
 at the time, it is in how we defeat obsession, the prison
 of consciousness in its own obsessive counting, that's the
 this of that, and so forth, how can you get beyond the tic
 tic of the obsessive and into some other swimming pattern
 of which the poem is part and lingo the mere manifest of
 the thing going on beyond which you have suggested
 everything you might have misplaced on the way to the
 bathroom, here and nowever not the same Gary Snyder you
 stepped on before, no, man, it's a different one each

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * <end PT 2/2>
ANABASIS (Thomas Lowe Taylor)
Works in this Room copyright © 2001 by Thomas Lowe Taylor


Copyright © 1995-2001 Ted Warnell. All Rights Reserved