Bobby Lynn Taylor

The component of the total aerodynamic force acting on an airfoil or on an entire aircraft or winged missile perpendicular to the relative wind and normally exerted in an upward direction, opposing the pull of gravity: lift. (http://www.thefreedictionary.com/lift)

When the air above moves faster than the air below: lift.

I’m shaping my wings, now that spring is here, I don’t fear the cold as much: lift.

And when those voices say that I am trapped in some yesterday, when they crowd in on me while dancing in their Easter clothes: lift.

Drive me down into the ground? No. I’ve grown there before; I’ve torn out my roots running from that hammer on my head. The faces, the tiny me in retreat, No, that will not work: lift.

Whether it be Jesus or Buddha or Ginsberg or Hank Williams or Van Gogh; or coffee or masturbation or calculations or predestination: lift.

With big metal forks that move under two ton palates wanting them placed somewhere else; the hydraulics working, the battery sending out its power to the point of transference: lift.

And these anti-humans, with their bloat and their blame, blasting past the gospels in their chariots of gold leaf—trying to impress the crowd—they notice if you’re loud: lift.

Lift me out

by my own power

in these last hours

of bondage to, through, and true—

Lift me, Sift me, Riff me like a jazz break on a Saturday night

with nothin’ left to lose

nothin’ but the blues

and a whole lot of chains around my neck and back and ears and nose and mouth

Lift

Neon

twenty-five gallons of vanilla ice-cream

40,000 freckles

six ounces of orange hair

I stood out

so clean, so white, so perfect

straight A’s in math and science

but not p.e., or english, or history

don’t ask me to remember correctly

or to live in my body

and you won’t be disappointed

the things I remember clearly

are private

still

the deacons’s daughter

maybe thirteen

I wanted in a wholesome way

until

the deacon’s son

told me how

he had sex with his sister

when they were alone

I believed him

I did not think of it

as incest

or rape

then

I wanted her more

when I learned that

she was dirty

like me

I did not have to pretend to be righteous

anymore

I wanted to see her holy naked sin

that’s all I could think about

for years

I was ashamed

I had been

naive

she chose my best friend

sat by him

during church

I still wanted her

when I was pumping

the girl

who gave me

accommodating

sex

she wasn’t bad

she just wasn’t

wrong

enough

I fed the lust

neon

liquor, lies, dope, and smoke

sunday morning spirit

saturday night binges

with guitar

philosophy

prophecy

olympic drinking

I pressed my brain

into a vice

of throbbing

flesh

a light, at long lost love last

sin into zen

I graduated my body

through the bedrooms

I needed

to qualify me

if I ever

found myself

alone

with the deacon’s daughter again

she sent me a friend request

last night

lit up in cyber

neon

Red

Jammer-slammed and welded

into the air

fire sand invisible to the human eye

Watch the velmen hide

and sleep ’til the storm passes

I cared too much

I tried to give you my arm

for a pillow

for a shelter

We both were lost

breathing in the red

exhaling our ghosts into the sidewalk

it doesn’t mean

it shouldn’t mean

it has to mean

This is the end of our

carbon date

The particles are infusing now

adhering to the helix

changing our DNA

blisters of gold are rising up on the inside of our veins

This is the curse of the high country

when the air is tripped

on a wire

-set for measuring fools

Fools who are only ignorant

of the symnobolic rattle of synotics

rebute the robaakan

rhindal the wrecautious

We have regumed our lungs with Red

It is Opening

Out in the streets

shouting

into vacant cracks of midnight

dust and garbage

piled up in a scab

gray scaly skin

breaking apart

the ground up

the living veins

sleeping beast wakes

we thought dead

It is opening

all those who know the power

are praising the day

stopping

putting off

letting go

the corporate kings go without

for a while

Let them wait

It will be a while

before they realize we are missing anyway

the managers will notice

try and make everyone stop rushing

to the portal

Then

when that fails

they fear for their jobs

run to tell their bosses

Bosses

sleeping off

last night’s feast of fools

They get rich when it is closed

but it is opening

It is opening

a vagina stretching out

making ready to deliver

bread meat wine

to people

living

on corporate cans

of potted meat

left over from butcher parties

Bobby Taylor is an MFA candidate in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied poetics at Naropa University. An award-winning and Grammy-nominated songwriter, he has had songs recorded by Don Williams, Montgomery/Gentry, Billy Ray Cyrus, and many other Nashville recording artists. As an actor he has performed on many stages throughout the country including The Lamb’s Theater in NYC, the Ryman Auditorium, the Grand Ole Opry, and his hometown theater: The Cumberland County Playhouse in Crossville, Tennessee.