ANABASIS
ANABASIS (Thomas Lowe Taylor)
- / A E 2 /
ANABASIS (Thomas Lowe Taylor)
USA
/AE2/
PART 1/2
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ON THE NONMATIC
A N A B A S I S
*********************
"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
who...."
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>
ON THE NONMATIC
ANABASIS
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,
whatever.
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
lingo.
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
That.
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
time..
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * <end PT 2/2>
ANABASIS (Thomas Lowe Taylor)
www.thing.net/~grist/homeanab.htm
ted@warnell.com
