K e n T a y l o r —
soil is a machine
slender blades push against pull.
the pledge of up blown skirts confused
by sense exchange. prelude to tasting sky.
i’m trying to decide which vitruvian degrees
oppose my last dissection. perfect square
and circle feelings. navel the center of both.
your dreams walk a replica plank.
submerged. not on top of water.
feature burlap. resin. van dyke brown.
built by tiny dances across pupils given time
to dilate with surprise. like random letters
of a ransom note seeking bounty
from a clearing. raising scores to settle.
pitched as
misdirection.
soon my regard turns from gloom inside
a mustard hoodie to grinning at the snug
outlook of entangling.
if i catch momentary air, notionally
i’ve lapped the earth in the distance covered
from where i left to where i land.
but you’ve been hurled too.
pressed into your chair by a sudden bouquet.
the prestige we’ve been waiting for.
both trapped in the spotlight of applause.
bliss
she wants to turn the penny
she doesn’t want the plant to have to eat around the chair
she wants prophetic dreams before dawn
she doesn’t want a falling down road house
she wants simulated conditions to apply
she doesn’t want to wish on a star that’s a number
she wants fragments
she doesn’t want bruised fruit
she wants that element between chance and choice of tones
she doesn’t want remnants
she wants justice where it’s least expected
she doesn’t want little blue trees with a new car scent
she wants the rose instead of a kiss
she doesn’t want a revictualed matinee tray
she wants unsolved conjecture
she doesn’t want some redneck temporality of wonder
she wants to be surprized by affection
she doesn’t want to be underarmed out of the bar
she wants to converse with the dead in some imaginary arcade—
a reminiscence portico for saying sorry or i no longer care
she doesn’t want award-winning nachos
she wants the courage to be strange
she doesn’t want shouting and blood
she wants a clay pipe soap bubble
she doesn’t want a fourth wall mirror
she wants a sapling as a post for a sign announcing danger
she doesn’t want a song and dance goddamnit
she wants the seat left down
she doesn’t want unsettled self-fashioning
she wants seabass shawarma
she doesn’t want bioacoustics to measure birdsong
she wants customer service in body wash
she doesn’t want a snap shot of seven french cows
she wants staffless music at large above the underworld
she doesn’t want to restamp footprints when mercury dips again
she wants to be moved by the exercise of her acts
she doesn’t want small sugar-plum candies traditionally thrown
she wants a clown born within the sound of cheapside bells
she doesn’t want hypothetical subjunctives
she wants the shadow of drumline rudiments
she doesn’t want the close up of a colossus wearing sail cloth
she wants to face in the direction of travel
ruined athlete
when precision played out jaundice struck the hillsides. an unexpected middle C change. stagger taking over fine-tuned technique. the hours of corrections turned guesswork. the sweet shot lapsed like a fast take on the long song not traversing lifted clay. no passing. no return. his dated profile and mash bill is swept left under less facts. distractions hinder finer kicked up chalk. strings and shoes quit being exhausted too soon. this just in—ad out.
all that’s missing is the hopeful frill of giving over to the ever parallel thing. pretext shards instead of rows of trophies. tennis ladders—whatever tends to thicken sap causing flowers, gone. when the world discovered fuzz of the open can smell and trending was precisely him. now scoring underlines underwhelming. no soap. no spread. no rake. service shoulder not holding. elbows spent. knees. name. place. his jolly past eclipsed. scan to redeem.
to count on bruising. the sorrow of low tide by access to equipment presently so striking. by translating injury to a smooth regard and better substrate. like prayer sounds in corn flowers. candle songs. fragrant mercy mapping a taller spirit brought by the mixed realm of the whimsy bracket. morning of the swell. here’s a great hack—match brown-chicken-brown-cow with ex nihilo light to scale charisma. wager latent seeds and naissance. declare new balls.
.