Ken Taylor

wyoming

in last night’s dream i swanned somewhere on surf avenue among powdery diffusions — patchouli, tuberose, jasmine. the mermaids are back. exhausting the range of their trousseaux. floating down the boardwalk making plunge moves to assume the schism of a wreck. like light passing through a prism. tonight was sown by farewell at high noon. a sendoff to one returning home to midland. drink flowed. which led me down another path not taken. getaway not made. the room knew how to get to texas from here — go south ‘til you smell it. east ‘til you step in it. chip-on-the-shoulder saw for being three states smaller. my notice is from the end of a barrel near the action. a far cry from citing title cards of films. often lost in amusement districts like a clown drifting through a sketch of the circus come to town. i wake to burnt rubber. the top note of collapsing in a discount tire lot. dried chew in my cheek. tense outro music as prelude to reflecting. i was in coney island once. never saw a reason to seek thrills on the slingshot or thunderbolt or cyclone. cast as juggler number two in the path of a b-roll chase scene. got hazard pay to keep getting knocked down. stardom always that far out of reach. when night falls, my campfire sounds the deep for nymphs to start swim season. to sooth old scars with plaintive tunes. with scented fists of pink. sirens singing each to each.

wyoming

name’s tom. tom foolery. my partner, ida claire. we’ve been the tuesday night saloon band for five years. providing the rhythmic muster of what passes for kitsch. the upshot of catching luster looping back. we used to bring the heat of west coast cool. played the derby in LA. lighthouse in hermosa. autry’s in palm springs. creatures of neon. end of most days we were just getting up. once opened for a circus. where i got my handle. can still smell the trapeze sweat. used to make it on the state fair circuit. covered every style. bebop. boot-scoot. standards. not bad for keyboard and drums. how we landed on the fringe of cheyenne. situated between mutton bustin’ and the boondock boys. i’m from the bronx. ida, a working ranch in minot. met years back in wichita. i was fleeing the scene and she ran third shift in a cocktail bar. real looker. modeled for follies. september issue ‘72. cowgirl take on that hiram powers greek slave. insisted on a lariat. honda knot serving as cache-sexe. eyes veiled by the brim of her ivory straw. took four bullshots to prod her up on the plinth. now we wear the same eyeliner and blush. lots of sable. hints of humdinger lush. neither fish nor fowl nor clip-on tie. and i try holding on when she wrecks muskrat love. cecil taylor meets insinkerator as prelude to aspirin. amphora song worthy of wonder. welter. show stopper. clear as clay.

wyoming

and blood-black nothingness began to spin… the dotted line between us binding. but not direct reporting. an inquorate construct for us like the borders of this state. someone decided a boundary. later codified for corrals. close calls. elevation change. the open parenthetical trying to contain untouched space. all the distance between us. my skin-job. my replicant. each other’s puppeteer. plethora. prophylactic. miles of staging in a feedback system. haptics beyond the wilderness twitch of melody on our body. designed for memoire that’s hard of hearing. what luck to accord to the fugue before? the close and touching past? relying on the unbendable now of the double not standing out among those pursuing oil. weave of a duplicate form. finding multiplicities where axes meet. shortcomings your assigned role. to travel in setbacks. mine officer in charge of minding vessels. singer of hoisting and heave-ho shanties that convey a heavy load. stuck on storyboards. fucking with continuity. ignoring industry by gaming baseline tests. listening for the rote pale fire. within cells. cells. interlinked. interlinked. dreadfully distinct. dreadfully. within one stem. within cells. cells. interlinked. interlinked. dropping in the way to live out words. to create the experience of overlap. fretted gaps. scars. drupelets. seedy pies. pixel shifts. sniff tests. reciting our alibi mantra of elsewhere: against the dark, a tall white fountain played.

wyoming

i woke to find myself in the pose of a mage. my body shrunk in wonderstruck. strangeness above. possible vulnerary. westward leading, still proceeding... a star guiding me and gifts to a subject not fully formed. air smelling of leather. parched seed corn. the sway of wild olive. you need a western sky big as all get out to be flushed from a watercourse. to fully court the flash of fire. to take in the past that includes present and future remembering. the navigator said he quit the church when really he was kicked out by the white chalk men for teaching the facts of antiquity. didn’t care to steer me clear from their scare tactics. their preaching moments. their fumes of prophecy like a teeming diaphragm recording storms when reverb is set to basilica. hunger distorts hearing and slammed doors echo fear. rejecting claims of being nursed by wolves. of springing from a birch when blooms are fetched for lips of the dead. there’s always been a breach between me and the stroke of scripture. lent from cast sticks and urns. from myrtle nymphs and sandy-winged birds. my incised cuts and scrapes in sans-serif. sheaves at large. how will i be shriven? this umble soup set before me is just out of reach. dear offal i can’t afford to sip. though i still seek the way. truth. light. in the mode of a partridge. hobbled smithy. stooped dancing pattern hoping to escape their maze.