Two poems by Taylor Gorman

Two poems
by Taylor Gorman

Just a Thought

Tired of words and their packets of meaning;
I want only the pure idea, because they
Are the DNA of this and that, you and I
And everything itself is only an idea
But words are not ideas, only symbols
The brass-crash of scaleless percussion
Ideas have octaves, chords, roots
They grow freely, feed off each other and themselves
Both vine and lilac, they curve in helices
They are the wheel, pasteurization, the light-bulb
Words are their lawyers, making their case
Wearing soft suits and silk ties
While the ideas sit in their oak chairs,
Knowing the trial is about them
Uttering not a sound

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Window Seat

Window seat and there are simply tubes and terminals and sparse trucks Our momentum is slow and I glance around No one is looking through the glass Nearly half pull the cover down so the linear insectish eyes seem to be almost winking in a strange way I would imagine if I were outside but I am watching out from the inside and our velocity increases It feels like we stay straight and the earth curves away but why would the ground bend for us Now everything seems to be like a model-town one that is geometrical in ways I never thought of like how the neighborhoods are perfectly square and in others the houses encircle each other like bees to a lotus I have the shark-fin seat so I am a sideways requiem-shark it seems engulfing low-clouds swallowing air I am enormous I want to leap from this sardine-space along its cramped ribs and swallow the increasingly decreasing Atlanta because Georgia is not a place I have ever been before and I care not for those below I want to dip my teeth into what looks like splotches of clay I never noticed that some streets wind with houses dangling from them like thin Christmas lights The cheap kind The kind that always short And being so tall or I mean swimming so sideways-highly I want to devastate them because I can or at least examine them because everything in a smaller state becomes much more interesting if not collectible Now there are thick nimbuses trailing below me and even less look through their windows This double-finned sea-beast in the water of air is looking nearly asleep in its swimming flight which is strange If I could swim as if air were water and water air I would certainly never be asleep Perhaps it’s purely a nautical trait Atlanta is now vague and vanishing and we have traversed into heaven but it has no angels or harps or gates but it does have that celestial glow but the glow is the sun and I don’t think God is the sun I mean he might be but that sounds so Greek as if Apollo is driving his chariot right now because that inebriated oenophile told the day to wake Why am I the only open eye Everyone is sleeping or shoving their nose into a newspaper or that shitty complementary magazine they give you I am the only eye witness to this This this whatever it is this is.


Author bio:

Taylor Gorman is a Louisiana writer currently schooling at Louisiana State University. He spends his time obsessing about music, movies, and sometimes books, but he reads really slow. He's been recently published in Tertulia Magazine and Freefall, and can be seen in upcoming issues of Burst and The Double Dare Press. Also, he wishes to high-five Bob Dylan.